


Anna Nonymous

by getthelubebitch



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Bipolar Ian, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Bottom Mickey Milkovich, Christmas, Clubbing, Denial of Feelings, Drag Queens, Drunken Flirting, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Disconnect, Emotional Slow Burn, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Feminine!Mickey, First Kiss, Halloween, Kissing, Lap Dances, Lesbian!Mandy, M/M, Mentions of Prostitution, Mickey Has Cats, Neck Kissing, OOC Mickey, Oral Sex, Past Abuse, Political References, Pop Culture, Reunions, Sex, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Smoking, Songfic, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Thanksgiving, Top Ian Gallagher, Wealthy!Mickey
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2018-11-29 08:12:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 83,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11436768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/getthelubebitch/pseuds/getthelubebitch
Summary: They were gorgeous. The leotard had a sweetheart neck line with fringe hanging down over their somewhat full breasts, swaying as they took long, dedicated steps. But their face… their face had Ian mesmerized. Skin milky and pale, icy blue eyes outlined with meticulously designed liner and lashes accentuating their shape. Eyebrows drawn on in an arched, exaggerated fashion and vibrant, bold, cherry red lipstick was painted over plump lips, a darker shade sketched around the perimeter to give them more dimension.He was lost for words. The music became blurred in his ears, all he could pay attention to was this magnetic human sauntering around, snatching dollar bills out of people’s hands left and right. They moved so effortlessly, so naturally, even in heels higher than Ian’s ever seen.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> song: slice of heaven by melody sweets

Ian wasn’t one to go clubbing. He was a homebody, an introverted workaholic with no time or energy for partying and getting drunk. It was understandable considering his occupation, saving lives all day with a continuous adrenaline rush was draining, always leaving him tired with only enough stamina to drive himself home and fall into bed. 

Every Friday night, his coworkers begged and pleaded for him to go out with them and he’d decline, giving some bullshit excuse about how he had to help his family with something or he had a hot new date to get to. Neither of which were ever true. 

This Friday was no exception. His friends had offered to pay for all his drinks, all he had to do was show up and down shot after shot. He turned them down again, receiving groans and complaints about how he was never any fun. The locker room emptied out and he headed home.

Hours later, sitting on his old, worn-out couch, he found himself scrolling through his phone. Snapchats where coming through from every single one of the guys, all the same thing but shot from different angles. All of them making out with girls, zooming in and screaming when two of those girls decided that they would rather kiss each other instead of sweaty, hyper-masculine boys. And they wonder why he never wanted to go out with them. 

He let his arms relax, handing sinking into his lap yet still grasped around his phone. This was his life. Sitting alone in his 600sqft studio apartment, working his life away, never having the fun he should be having in his twenties. His life was passing him by and he wasn’t doing anything to stop it. He needed something entertaining, something to liven him up, make him feel awake. 

Grabbing his phone and a jacket, he was steadily moving down the flights of stairs and eventually outside. He started walking with no real destination in mind, he just let himself wander in any direction that would hopefully bring some brightness back into his soul. It was almost midnight and the streets were dark. If a cop saw him right now, they’d probably think he was trouble as he was wearing grey sweatpants and a black sweatshirt with the hood covering his head. 

Along the strip of barren street, there was one sparkling and active business. From where he was standing, it seemed slightly metaphorical. He was stood at the beginning of a dark tunnel starring down at the dazzling, bright lights at the end of it. 

He kept on, inching closer and closer with every stride. Once he reached the place, he stepped backwards and tilted his head up to read what was happening here and why there was a line out the door. 

“Anna Nonymous?” he said under his breath with his face scrunched up a bit in confusion. He had never been this deep into Boystown before. His younger self typically stayed to the simple bars, never daring to go past his comfort zone. Anna was about to be his first drag experience. 

He queued up with everyone else and waited his turn. There had never been a time where Ian felt more out of place. The people around him were clearly regulars. Carefree and full of self-expression, not afraid of what others thought or having others gaze at them and their colorful wardrobes. 

“Ten bucks,” the bouncer behind his wooden podium said with a straight, no-nonsense face.

Ian patted on his pants pockets and fished out a twenty. He got change and a stamp on his hand and was let through the double doors leading into the already filled club. It was cool but would soon turn sweaty with all the hot bodies stuffed together like anchovies. 

He stayed toward the back of the place, picking a spot looking directly at the end of the runway. There was a bar to his right but alcohol only made him sleepy, so he stayed fidgeting on his phone, tapping quickly though the flood of snaps he was still receiving. Then the lights went dim. 

The crowed started cheering and clapping, some even jumping up and down as if this was the highlight of their week. Ian’s next was already laced with perspiration from the thick sweatshirt clinging to his sticky frame. He removed it and as he pulled it over his head, his eyes focused on a body on stage, illuminated by a single spotlight.

It was like time began moving in slow motion while Ian was simultaneously transported back to the 1950’s. Anna was facing away from their audience, hands on their padded hips, feet parted. Ian could see that they were short in stature, but their bare legs that were elevated by diamond stoned heels seemed to go on forever. Their waist was cinched in by a corset that was part of an immaculately white leotard, covered in gems, twinkling as the lights hit them in the right spots. Blonde locks ended above their shoulder blades, pleated with perfect waves and curled in at the bottom, frozen in place with hairspray.

Ian hadn’t even seen their face yet, but he was sure this was one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen. The music started playing and the crowed got rowdier. Anna lifted their left arm and began snapping to the beat. They then turned around and Ian almost fell weak at the knees. They shimmied their shoulders and started making their way across the stage, lip-syncing and meeting every one of their viewers with only eye contact. 

They were gorgeous. The leotard had a sweetheart neck line with fringe hanging down over their somewhat full breasts, swaying as they took long, dedicated steps. But their face… their face had Ian mesmerized. Skin milky and pale, icy blue eyes outlined with meticulously designed liner and lashes extenuating their shape. Eyebrows drawn on in an arched, exaggerated fashion and vibrant, bold, cherry red lipstick was painted over plump lips, a darker shade sketched around the perimeter to give them more dimension.

He was lost for words. The music became blurred in his ears, all he could pay attention to was this magnetic human sauntering around, snatching dollar bills out of people’s hands left and right. They moved so effortlessly, so naturally, even in heels higher than Ian’s ever seen. 

Ian’s eyes stayed locked on their body, head to toe, but always finding a way back to their face. He was trailing down again, admiring how tight their waist was. How they were still able to breathe with their lungs seemingly squeezed shut, Ian didn’t know. He shifted his gaze back up to their face and intense eyes were starring back at him.

They were still putting on their show, mouthing the words to a song Ian still wasn’t listening to, but they were eye-fucking Ian too, all at the same time. They licked their lips and rubbed their money filled hands down their body, never looking away from him. 

Someone bumped into him and shook him back into reality right as the song was coming to a close.

“Let me cut you off a slice of heaven,” they did a twirl and turned away from the crowd, bending down to touch their ankles, giving everyone a good view of their best asset. Ian could’ve sworn they were doing it for him, but there was no way of knowing for sure. 

They started sliding their hands up their legs and they stood back up, “Let me cut you off a piece of pie.”

There were a few more beats, and the room went black. By the time the lights came back on, the stage was cleared of any evidence that someone had just put on a live softcore porn just seconds earlier. 

The place started to clear out and Ian was more than confused, “Excuse me?” he stopped a guy before he exited, “Was that it?”

“Yeah?”

“Aren’t they gonna do another song?”

The guy had his arm slung around another man’s shoulders and they both laughed at Ian like he was stupid, “She only performs once a week. One song every Friday.”

Ian looked around as they became the only three left in the club, “Ten bucks for one song, huh?”

“Anna’s the best queen in Chicago. Could charge fifty bucks and everyone would still pay,” the two men started heading toward the door, the original halting the assumed boyfriend and looked back one last time, “wasn’t she worth it?”

“Yeah.”

He got checked out by both guys before he watched them leave, linked together. Ian stayed alone for a moment, secretly hoping his dream personified would come back out for a private encore. But, to no avail, he was eventually ushered out by the same bouncer who let him in not even ten minutes prior. 

As he got back home, he immediately got his computer out and searched for anything about Anna he could find. There were pictures of them in drag and videos of their shows, but nothing about who they were under the makeup-mask. 

Next Friday couldn’t come soon enough.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song: feels like vegas by tinashe

The following week was far and away the longest one of Ian’s life. Minutes felt like hours, hours were days, days could’ve been months for all he knew, but getting through each day was equivalent to pulling teeth; slow and painful with no way of cheating his way to the finish line. 

Work was continually grueling, performing in high-stress situations with a bunch of immature, straight men had him reconsidering this career path constantly. Still, they tried their best to convince him to go out with them, but he finally had something to do that didn’t involve sitting alone in his apartment. Well, technically, he was alone, but he wasn’t alone in silence. 

Every possible video he could find of this mystery drag queen, he’d watch. Every picture had been looked at one too many times. Their Instagram had been followed and stalked. Ian accidentally double tapped a post from years ago, making him want to curl up into a ball and never step foot in that club ever again in fear that they’d recognize him. But he knew that was just illogical. 

Finally, he made it through six days of hell, and after only being able to admire them through pixels on a screen, he was going to see them in the flesh. Although, a Friday wasn’t a Friday without his coworkers hounding him about going out. He told them, once again, that he had plans, but for the first time that wasn’t a lie. 

He had a little more pep in his step on his way home; not so sluggish and tired. It was clearly because he had something to look forward to instead of spending another night locked away in his dungeon.

Clothes were changed, hair was gelled back, cologne was sprayed. He wasn’t sure why he was treating this like a date, why he was getting so dolled up for someone who he’d see from a distance for three minutes then not again for another week. But, last week, he was unprepared and wasn’t expecting to need to make a good first impression, forcing him to initially show himself to this entrancing drag queen in a nasty, holey t-shirt with sweats. In some way, he thought that he needed to redeem himself.

He locked his apartment and headed down the same route he took the Friday before, leaving much sooner than last time to ensure he’d get a spot closer to the stage.

The closer he got to those blinding lights, the faster his heart beat. The line outside was considerably shorter than before, although he knew it was because he was about a half an hour early. There was another show still going on inside, music vibrating through the walls onto Ian’s back as he leaned up against it. It was kind of sad, seeing as all these people, including him, would rather stand outside and wait for Anna’s set than go inside and watch another queen’s show in the meantime. 

The surrounding people still made him feel out of place though. He was either too disgustingly dressed down or looked like he was trying too hard. Everyone else just looked comfortable and like they threw on whatever they wanted without any second thought and came down here to have a good time. 

There was a girl with jet black hair sitting alone on the sidewalk behind him, fidgeting on her phone, apparently trying to make the time pass quicker. She seemed harmless enough, so he figured this was a good opportunity to ask some questions about his new unconventional crush, “Excuse me?”

She looked up with a soft smile across her lips, “Yeah?”

“Do you know anything about Anna? Like, who they are out of drag?”

“No one does,” she replied, shaking her head, “that’s part of her whole mystique, ya know?”

He nodded, defeatedly. All he wanted was answers; a name, a picture, something to hold him over until he could meet them. Something to satisfy this craving.

“Not even their name?”

She shook her head again, “Why do you keep using gender neutral pronouns?”

“I don’t know,” he averted his eyes so he was looking away from her and shrugged, “they’re a man, right?”

“Yes, she is,” she laughed and put her phone in her purse, standing up next to him, her head only reaching his shoulder, “well, no one knows for sure. The mystery extends to that too.”

Before he could respond, sweaty people with blushed cheeks started pouring out of the double doors, insinuating the show was over and Anna would soon be on. It took a few minutes for the crew to sweep out the club and get the next set’s lights and music ready to go, Ian’s stomach’s butterfly population growing greater and greater by the second. 

The line eventually started moving, he handed the same bouncer as last week ten bucks and headed inside.

“You care if I stand with you?” his new friend said from behind him.

They found two spots at the end of the runway, front row, “Not at all.”

A people started filling in, they became squished up against the stage and against each other; everyone wanted to be as close to Anna as possible. 

“I’m Ian, by the way,” he had to talk louder than normal over all the other voices in the room.

The corners of her lips lifted slightly as she readjusted herself, trying to gain some more space, “Okay.”

Ian spread his legs apart to occupy a larger area, “What, you’re not gonna tell me your name? You tryin’ to copy Anna?”

“She’s taught me the importance of privacy,” she said confidently with a grin, “I don’t know you, why would I tell you my name? What if you attack me or something?”

“I’m gay, first of all,” halfway through his sentence, the lights went dim and the crowd started clapping and screaming. 

A silhouette came walking out, dragging a chair behind them. They stopped and Ian could swear he saw them make eye contact with him for a split second, almost as if they were trying to find where he was. They continued their sultry walk down the catwalk, heels clacking against the ground mixed with the ear-numbing cheers of their anticipating audience. 

The lights were still off and Ian couldn’t see much, but as the person got closer to him with each step, there was so much coming into focus, he couldn’t decide what to look at first. Their shoes were somehow higher this time and red, legs bare and hairless. 

They stopped and sat backwards on the chair, a long, black, chiffon laced robe hanging behind them, pooling below. Blonde hair covered their head again, but it was down to their ass and fried straight instead of short and wavy.

A spotlight shone on their back in time with the first chord of music blasting through the speakers. Between their change in attire and the sound of the song, they weren’t doing another burlesque inspired performance, it seemed to be current. 

They were still facing away from everyone, hands gripped onto the back of the chair. They moved their head around in a circular motion, hair swaying against their back.

“Let me set the stage for ya,” they stood up and swung their right leg around to stand facing the crowd as the screaming got louder and louder, money immediately being held up in the air. They looked at Ian directly in the eye, not paying attention to anyone else in the room, “'Cause you know I like it when I dance for ya.”

Sheer, lacy, black lingerie covered their body under the matching robe. Waist cinched in to the point where it looked like they couldn’t be able to breathe, just like last week. Same makeup, shiny gloss reflecting off their beat-red lips. Having their eyes locked like this had Ian feeling weak in the knees.

“Been anticipatin’ when you make it over,” they kept their eyes glued to Ian, but moved around to collect their well-deserved cash. He was the one to eventually pull his gaze away, as hard as it was. He fumbled around in his pant pockets, pulling out a wad of one dollar bills. He was prepared. 

They worked their audience, making flirty eyes with anyone who would buy it. Ian held out a dollar onto the stage and let himself look back at them. It took a few beats for them to catch on but they made their way back over and squatted down in front of him, noses almost touching. Ian could smell them and it was intoxicating. Cigarettes and some sort of floral perfume filled his senses and he couldn’t see straight, especially with these two baby-blue eyes staring into his soul. They let their entire hand cover Ian’s, fingertips tracing down the top of it and gently taking the dollar from his grasp, “And baby, baby, I swear, close your eyes, I’m takin’ you there.”

If he wasn’t smashed up against the stage and being held up by the people around him, Ian was sure he would’ve fallen over at that moment. 

They stuffed the collection of bills into their bra and sat back down on the chair, continuing to make Ian feel like he was the only person in the room. They spread their legs on either side of their body and started feeling themselves up.

“These flashing lights,” the spotlight began pulsing on and off, “I let you love me, ‘cause I can tell that you want me.”

Ian truly didn’t know where to look. Did he keep the invisible connection between their eyes? Or watch their mouth move expertly to the lyrics? Or focus on their hands currently dragging along their neck and down to their chest? Both he and his crotch knew there was too much going on and there was nothing he could do about it.

It was a weird sensation; being this attracted to someone who appeared to be a female. Not just that, but he hadn’t even been touched and yet here he was with a raging boner straining against his jeans. 

“Just you and I, body to body we’re gettin’ out of this party,” their hands were now slowly moving down their corseted stomach. They started tapping the heels of their shoes to the beat as it picked up, “Flashing lights, I let you love me, ‘cause I can tell that you want me,” hands now grazing over their thighs, hands ending on each knee, “just you and I. I… Feels like Vegas don’t it?”

They got up and left Ian hanging for way too long. Left him craving that nonexistent contact. Longing for more interaction.

Ian kept his eyes on them, even if they weren’t reciprocating. They collected every last dollar from the people they could reach, stuffing it all in their bra to fill it out. Back into the chair they went, facing Ian one again.

“How you like it, throw me on the bed. Show me how to love you the right way.”

They leaned forward with their elbows resting on their knees, forearms and hands dangling between their legs. They were close, not as close as before, but close enough to where Ian could see the details of their makeup. He could see a slightly darker line of glued down hair underneath their drawn-on brows, the silver glitter on top of the black eyeshadow, how there was a tiny gap where their wig wasn’t glued on behind their ear, exposing some hair that looked unnaturally black. 

“When you’re runnin’, and I just can't take no more, you go even harder and we end up on the floor.”

He held out another dollar, honestly feeling like he was getting his own personal show at this point. They seemed to forget for a moment that they were performing for a room full of paying guests too as they got out of the chair and kneeled in front of Ian. 

They mouth the lyrics agonizingly slow, “Hey, feelin’ on my body,” they pushed their chest out, giving Ian a silent invitation to add his money to their portable bank account, which he gladly accepted.

“Love it when I call you daddy.”

He was gone. Mouth dry, heartbeat unhealthily fast. He felt like he was about to have a heart attack and would be found dead with the world’s biggest hard-on in a grimy club like some creep, preying on an innocent drag queen who probably couldn’t care less about him or the current bitch of an unsatisfactory situation going on in his pants.

Making people feel this was their job and Ian was a prime target, but that didn’t make it hurt any less to watch them walk away and finish the rest of the song without looking at him again.

He watched them walk off stage without a single glance back in his direction, the lights came back on and everyone started shuffling out. As people started moving away from him, he felt like he could finally breathe again.

“What the fuck was that?!” the mystery girl he unintentionally forgot about pushed on his chest, making him stumble backwards, “Why was she looking at you like that?! She never looks at people like that! What the fuck!” 

Ian didn’t know how to respond. They silently left the building with everyone else, walking down the sidewalk together. He broke apart from her for a moment to look for a way to the back of the building. His only option was a pitch-black garbage-filled alley, and he’d be ashamed to admit that he thought about going down it, even though it looked like a portal to an alternate universe. 

“Hey,” A womanly voice shook him back into reality, “I’m gonna get going.”

“Need me to walk you home?”

“I’d be protecting your ass, don’t waste your time,” they both laughed as she started walking backwards across the barren street, “my name's Mandy!”

Ian nodded and waved her goodbye, yelling back, “See you next week!”

He started walking back to his apartment, feeling helpless knowing the potential love of his life was still in the back of that building, probably taking their disguise off and he didn’t have the guts to sneak in.

That might have to change soon. This waiting game was going to grow old real soon and he didn’t know if he’d be able to control himself or his instincts.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song: nasty naughty boy by christina aguilera

Mandy was late. Or maybe Ian was just extremely early. He had gotten there before the show ahead of Anna’s had even started, forcing him to sit on a bench by the curb until the queue emptied out again. 

In his mind, if he got there early enough, there might be a chance of seeing his dream queen go into the building. So, standing first in line while the music heavy with bass pumped into the atmosphere, he kept an eye out for a short guy with blue eyes and black hair. A pretty vague description, but it’s all he had to work with and he was doing his best.

His eyes focused on every guy that walked by the club to see if they were going down that dark alley behind the building, even if their looks didn’t fit his criteria.

There was one guy who kept eyeing him as he walked by slowly, almost like he was taking his sweet time just to get a good look. It made Ian feel nauseous, like he was back in his stripping days. Being gazed at like that was the greatest way to make him feel fragile and small, but also the only way to make him want to punch you until your nose caved into your skull. It was a paradox and there was no real way of explaining it, especially because he didn’t feel that way when Anna sang to him with a stare so sensual it would have Ian on his knees in no time flat if that privilege was handed to him.

“Hey,” Mandy came sauntering across the street in all black, hair pulled back into a ponytail with only her bangs set free, “how long you been here?”

“Half hour.”

She went straight for the front of the line, receiving groans and people yelling about how cutting wasn’t allowed like they were in elementary school, “Fuck off, I’m with him.”

Ian moved forward slightly to give her some room to squeeze in, now pressing against the rope keeping them from entering the club. 

Mandy immediately slid down the brick wall onto the ground, knees folded into her chest, and got her phone out to keep herself occupied. He let himself sink down to sit beside her, willing himself to ignore how dirty this concrete was.

“Remember last week?” she said without looking up from her phone, “People posted pictures online, look.” 

She handed him her phone and pulled a pack of cigarettes from her leather jacket, lighting one up and taking a drag. 

He didn’t know what to make of what was on this screen. Photo after photo uploaded onto Instagram, all of which had Anna staring directly at Ian. Being taller than everyone else in the crowd had its benefits, one of which was making it easy to see who she had her eyes on. 

Different angles, some from behind him with only the back of his head visible. Some from the side where you could see both of them watching each other. They all confirmed one thing: Ian hadn’t been making anything up. She had been purposefully latched onto him that entire night, but the reason was still unknown.

“The fuck was that, huh? She never sticks with one person for more than, like, five seconds.”

Ian scrolled up and down through the stream of evidence, looking over each piece multiple times to try and make sense of what all of this was, “I don’t know. Only been here twice.”

He handed her phone back and let his head fall back against the wall, taking her cigarette from her grasp as she held it in front of his face.

“Shit. Kinda sucks no one knows who she is or else you could fuck her.”

They both started laughing, not only at that ridiculously unrealistic concept, but at the wording of her sentence and the idea of him fucking a girl.

“Nah, they’re just doing their job. I’m just another one getting sucked into a trap,” he took it upon himself to stub the butt of their shared cancer-stick into the ground, “I’m not worthy of her majesty, anyway,” he finished, sarcastically. 

He smiled and stood back up as everyone in the club started pouring out, getting into Ubers and the rest walking away in all different directions. 

“You see the people who come to this place?” she waved her hand around, motioning to the people drenched in sweat with hair sticking to their foreheads, “She’d be stupid not to fuck you.” 

He didn’t reply, not knowing exactly what to say. Did he want to fuck the guy behind the mask? Who knows. There was a definite connection between them, never mind Ian’s obstructed view of the person underneath the bedazzled clothes and immaculate makeup. 

A name would suffice. A picture, or a clip of them talking would tie him over and maybe relieve some of the intrigue. But here he was again, handing the bouncer ten bucks to see someone lip-sync a song and then disappear for another week. 

They got to the same spot they were in last time, at the end of the runway looking the stage head-on. Shoulders smashed together, Mandy told more than one innocent person to get the fuck out of her way and give her some room, never once directing that anger toward Ian. 

Lights turned off and heels started clacking closer and closer to Ian, a chair being dragged behind them in same way they had during the previous performance. The crowd was chanting and hyping Anna up, but as soon as they began to calm down, clapping came through the speakers, signifying the beginning of the show.

A spotlight flashed and there they were in all their glory. Red all over, head to toe. A deep, fiery red wig shaped their face perfectly, cut just above the collarbone and curled just like Dita von Teese. A two-piece outfit revealing a tiny strip of skin above the waistband of their bottoms but below their bellybutton. Corset still sewn around their ribs, creating a slim, unrealistic looking waist. Lips painted that same cherry bomb color, cheeks still carved out. Red pumps giving them an extra three to four inches in height. 

The clapping subsided and the room was silent for only a few beats, Ian already locking eyes with them. It was instantaneous, like a habit both couldn’t kick. They parted their lips to begin moving their mouth to the words of a new song. 

“Come here, big boy.”

They pulled and pushed their index finger, signaling an invitation for Ian to climb on stage with them. He looked like a deer caught in headlights, frozen where he stood, heart racing but feeling like he had no pulse at the same time. 

His feet were glued to the floor until Mandy pushed him and shook him back to reality, “Get the fuck up there, what are you doing?!” 

Ian mouthed ‘me?’ and Anna replied with a single nod, coming toward him and holding both hands out to help lift him up and onto the platform. He grasped their hands and felt his whole body go weak. Mandy bent over and put his ass on her shoulder, standing up and bringing him with her. There was no way he would’ve gotten up there himself, not only out of fear, but because he legitimately couldn’t feel his legs. Everything was happening so fast, yet the world was spinning in slow motion.

He collected himself, somehow managing to stand on his own two feet, and was immediately instructed to sit on the chair that was placed in the middle of the runway; nowhere to run except of the edge and into a sea of complete strangers. A perfect mix of exciting and terrifying. 

“You’ve been a bad, bad boy,” they were standing at the end of the stage opposite him, legs spread, hands on hips. Steps began to be slowly taken, inching toward Ian. They teased him and walked around the chair, collecting tips along the way but continuing to keep constant eye contact with their victim. 

They came up behind him and put their hands on his shoulders, rubbing down his chest with their face in the crook of his neck, hot breath tickling his skin, “I’m gonna take my time, so enjoy.”

Although, there was no sound coming directly from their mouth and Ian wished so badly he could hear them speak just once, them being that close to his ear was enough. The air around him was only filled with… them. Nothing but sweet perfume blended with nicotine and beer. God, just give him a taste.

Their fingers lingered on his shoulder as they walked around in front of him again, “There’s no need to feel no shame, relax and sip upon my champagne.”

Ian’s blood was pumping, coursing through his veins a mile a minute. They were staring at him again, Ian angling his head upward to meet their eyes. “‘Cause I wanna give you a little taste,” they hooked their thumbs into the waistband of their bottoms and started to slowly slip the fabric down over their hipbones, “Of the sugar below my waist, you nasty boy.”

They strutted down to the end of the runway, stopping to face the crowd, “I’ll give you some oh-la-la,” they bent over to collect tips and made Ian almost pass out at the same time. For the past two weeks, he swore they padded their ass to create a more feminine figure, but he was surely mistake. 

Stuffing the dollar bills in their bra, they turned back around and headed toward him while mouthing, “Voulez vous coucher avec moi?”

He tried to piece those words together to the best of his ability, struggling to remember anything from those four years of classes he took in high school. Voulez is want. Vous is you. Coucher is sleep. Moi is… it clicked. Do you want to sleep with me? His brain was becoming hazier and hazier but he managed a nod in response as they crouched down in front of him and gazed up. They placed one hand on his right knee to keep themselves from toppling over on their heels and reached toward his face with the other. 

“I got you breaking into a sweat,” they swiped their thumb over a very real bead of sweat that had formed from the pure lust and desperation. Two hands were now moving down his body, black press-on nails grazing over his shirt, until they reached their destination and stopped right on top of the embarrassingly large bump at the base of his pelvis. 

Their hands over his restricted dick made his breath hitch, mouth open and his eyes shut, tensing up from head to hoe, “Got you hot, bothered and wet, you nasty boy,” they pushed down on his knees, using them as leverage to stand back up without breaking an ankle, and he opened his lids to look up at them, wanting more. It felt like they were the only two people in the room. That was until the chorus picked up and they left him hard and horny like a teenage boy.

“Oh, baby, for all it’s worth, I swear I’ll be the first to blow your mind.”

“Now if you’re ready come and get me, I’ll give you that hot, sweet, sexy loving.”

It shouldn’t have made him a little jealous that they were performing to the people in the audience and not him. This was their job, he was the mouse and this lap dance was the trap. He shouldn’t be stupid enough to fall for it and neither should they. Although, he was sitting up here by their request with more people staring at him than ever before and yet they were putting on a show for random guys handing over a couple bucks which, in Ian’s mind, warranted a little envy. He fished through his pant pockets and pulled out a twenty, crumpling it in his hand for when the time came. 

They came walking back over, money sticking out of their bra in every direction. He was taken by surprise as they sat down on his lap, facing him, feet hooked around the back legs of the chair. They took both of Ian’s hands and secured them on their thighs, taking their own hands and wrapping them around his neck. Their faces were so impeccably close, noses brushing, and the pressure on his crotch was on the verge of euphoric.

Their eyes had turned into quick sand, one look and both were rapidly sinking deeper and deeper into the depths of one another. As Ian was making a damn fool of himself, looking like he was about to come just from eye contact with a complete stranger, Anna remained professional and continued with the song.

“Hush, now don’t say a word.”

They started grinding down on him, his hands moving with their hips as they swayed, “I’m gonna give you what you deserve,” there was so much stimulating him, so many things going on in his head, but he figured now was as good a time as any to slip that twenty into their underwear. He tucked the bill into the waistband just as they stood up and turned around, sitting on his thighs to face the crowd of obnoxious, screeching fans. 

“Now, you better give me a little taste,” they rested back onto his chest and tilted their head enough for their nose to brush against Ian’s cheek, breaths of unspoken words tickling the skin along his jawline. They stood up and bent over, ass right in his face, hands trailing from their ankles upward, “Put your icing on my cake, you nasty boy,” their hips rocked with the beat as they moseyed away from him, pulling the twenty out and stuffing it into their top with the rest of their earnings.

“Oh, no, oh there I go again, I need a spanking,” as they reached the end of the catwalk they twisted around to look at Ian. He was spread out, legs wide, arms limp and hung to the side, hair disheveled and pupils blown out with lust. His heart was thrashing around in his chest, it felt like it was about to burst out of his body and kill him. Anna was going to kill him. They took one step for each word that came pulsing through the speakers, “‘Cause I’ve,” step, “Been,” step, “Bad.”

They sped up and moved closer to him, his gaze shameless gaze veering toward their eyes. They stood above him, looking down through hooded lids as their hands roamed over their jeweled two-piece outfit, glistening under the spotlights. “So, let my body do the talking,” their hands moved up and around their neck, back down over their padded breasts, and ended over what should be their penis, but that had been tucked away into a flat, faux vagina, “I’ll slip you that hot, sweet, sexy loving.”

“Oh, ha!” leaning over, they grabbed his hands and pulled him up to stand, his legs nearly giving out. They started walking backwards, leaving him standing awkwardly and vulnerably in front of a crowd full of strangers, “Come on, daddy!” They held their finger out and pulled it in toward them, egging him on to come closer as they continued down the runway. He started taking tentative steps, inching closer and closer to the tease, “Oh, yeah, oh, come on,” whoever was singing the song moaned, making Ian stop in his tracks to remember just who was speaking, “Sugar.”

He was taking too long, so they met him in the middle. They came up and began unbuttoning the top of his shirt, reveling tuffs of orange hair, “I got you breaking into a sweat,” they finished off the buttons, letting his shirt fly open. The lyrics were right; he was sweating. The air hitting his previously restricted, dewy skin felt cool, even if it was blistering inside the club. He didn’t care that hundreds of people were staring at his exposed abdomen or were screaming at Anna to start on his pants, all his could focus on was them. How even with heels, they were still slightly shorter than him. How they looked up with full lips, licking them over and breaking into a smile when they noticed just how fixated he was on them. 

They let their hands skim over his skin, making a field of goosebumps appear. They took the advice of their audience and started fumbling with Ian’s belt buckle, but he didn’t resist- didn’t even know what was going on, “Got you hot, bothered and wet, you nasty boy.” They got the latch undone, belt flopping free, “Nasty, naughty boy,” they started with the tiny, metal button, then slowly began unzipping him, “Oh, you naughty boy.”

They twirled them both around and squeezed their fingers into his waistband, walking backwards to the chair, never breaking eye contact, “Oh, baby, for all it’s worth, I swear I’ll be the first to blow your mind.” A hand slipped down to cup his jean-clad cock, making him stand up straight while his breath got caught in his lungs, “Now that you’re ready, give it to me,” the other hand wrapped around the nape of his neck, face coming closer to Ian’s neck to inhale his intoxicating scent just like Ian’s was soaking in theirs. They spoke for the first time, instead of just mouthing the words, the whisper sensual and erotic against Ian’s ear, “Just give me that hot, sweet, sexy loving.” 

As they pulled back, Ian realized his hands had laced around their waist to keep them close for what he hoped was forever, but they broke loose and bent over the chair, gripping the back so their ass was dick-level with Ian, “Now give me a little spanking.” They wiggled their hips in anticipation and Ian didn’t know what to do. He came up behind them, legs still struggling to stay upright, and he placed both palms on the dimples of their back, running them up their sides. Those words they muttered into his ear gave him the jolt of confidence he needed in this exact moment. It’s like they knew he wouldn’t be able to do anything if they didn’t give him the go-ahead. 

“Oh, yeah? Is that all you’ve got?”

“Come on now,” they pushed back to make contact with his erection, still barely popping out of his half-unzipped pants, “Don’t play with me.”

For some reason, he couldn’t spank them. He couldn’t do what they were virtually begging him to do. He didn’t know when or if he’d ever get the chance to be this intimate with what could potentially be the love of his life; he wanted to cherish this. He pressed against them, dick rubbing between their cheeks, as his hands kept moving up and down their back. He wasn’t ready for it to be finished, but they stood back up and clutched onto his shoulders, forcing him into the chair again.

“Oh, give me that hot, sweet, nasty,” they walked away, back to the crowd to collect more tips, “Boy, don’t you make me wait.”

That’s when he knew it was done. He had been too caught up in his own head to do what they asked and now this dream was coming to an unfortunate end. Why was he mad at himself? This was going to be over eventually, he knew that, but for it to be abrupt and before he thought it was the right time? Selfishly, he wanted to grab them and give them what they wanted; give them everything. 

“Now, you better give me a little taste, put your icing on my cake, you nasty boy.”

As they started back toward him, the speakers let out another moan. He looked them over one last time before their fingers met with his face, lightly dragging them from his chin, up to his ear and through his hair while they walked past him into the wings of backstage. The main lights came on, people started shuffling out, and he waited up there like a lone circus animal until only Mandy was left on the floor. 

She stood with her mouth agape, slowly turning her lips into a smirk as she started to slow clap and shake her head in disbelief, “Ho-ly shit.”

“Y’all need to get outta here,” the bouncer yelled to them from the entrance. 

Ian hopped off the platform and zipped himself up, not sure what to do with the painfully obvious swelling in his pants Anna had just created. He buttoned his shirt up halfway, leaving some room for the cool air outside to hopefully shock his nerves back to how they’re supposed to be. 

They got outside and waited amongst people waiting for their rides, “I’m pretty sure every single person in there is about to go home and jack off to that,” Mandy crammed her hands into her leather jacket, “I’m not even kidding, I might too.”

“Stop,” Ian said, smiling, “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Are you kidding me?!” her voice got high pitched before she pushed his chest, making him stumble backwards and bump into an innocent, unsuspecting person, “Hey, excuse me,” she spoke to the guy Ian just hit, snapping her fingers to get his attention, “Was what happened in there not the hottest thing you’ve ever seen?” 

“Hell yeah,” the guy started, “I would kill to get that kinda dance. You’re lucky as fuck, man.”

Ian just nodded and moved away, clearly uncomfortable with the thought of strangers tugging one out to the thought of him. The only stranger he’s be okay with doing that was the one who was part of it. 

Mandy followed behind him, “Don’t act like you’re not packing a fat ass hard on, right now. You’re not fooling anybody.”

People waiting along the curb for their Ubers and Lyfts turned around after such an explicit comment, only to see Ian and nod understandably, shifting back to face the street. 

They hung around together until everyone else was gone. Mandy had continued pressuring him for information he told her he didn’t have, specifically how they smelled and sounded. Ian was keeping whatever exclusive knowledge he had to himself, no one was going to pry that out of him.

After saying their goodbyes and agreeing to meet here next week, Mandy left in the same direction she goes every Friday. Ian stayed, though. He checked his phone and still had almost a full battery, good, no one needed him at work, good, none of his siblings were nagging at him to come visit, good. 

He was going to see the man behind the mask if it was the last thing he did. He’d stay out all night if he had to. 

He parked himself on the same bench he waited at earlier and started fucking around, playing Sudoku or Solitaire, anything to keep himself busy while he anticipated Anna’s arrival. 

The street was completely deserted, not a single person was left after he watched the bouncers walk themselves home. All the lights were off inside the club, as far as he could see, and outside was just the same. What once was a brightly lit, vibrant, explosive building was now just as dull as the rest of the street. He thought about how he probably shouldn’t be out here at nearing 2am without something to protect himself, but before he could keep his mind on being murdered, there was a rustling coming from the deepest part of the alley and an irritated, “Fuck!” 

Ian stayed seated, only his eyes moving side to side, trying to detect where the voice was coming from. 

“Stupid fucking piece of shit wig,” the voice got closer, shoes scraping against concrete until they came to a stop and Ian couldn’t help himself from standing and facing the perpetrator, ready to fight if need be. 

Instantly, he knew that was the man. Short, but tall enough to where heels would perfectly prop him up to Anna’s height. Eyes dark from the night sky, but still the same baby blues. Lips plump and full, just like his crush. He looked the guy over, trying to decide whether he should make a move or not. He stepped around the bench, breaking the barrier and entering the stranger’s territory, “Hey.”

They stayed still, not moving or responding. 

“Um,” Ian started, rubbing his palms on his jeans, “Thanks for tonight.”

 _Thanks for tonight?_ What a stupid fucking introduction. Ian squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, trying to shake up his vocabulary and find something useful to say.

“I mean, uh,” the guy stared straight at him, eyes wide, “I’m Ian.”

He stuck his hand out in the man’s direction, but was given only a flat question in response, “What do you mean, ‘thank you for tonight?’”

“The dance,” Ian said with a slight grin, “You’re really talented.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the guy said, bolting to the street to get away from Ian. 

Ian quickly chased after him, his giraffe-like legs coming in handy, “Look, I’m not gonna say anything to anyone, I just wanna talk to you. Let me buy you a drink or something.”

Both men stopped in the middle of the road, assuming it was safe to do so at this hour. The black-haired man turned around, “I didn’t give you a lap dance.”

“Yeah, you did? Like an hour and a half, two hours ag-”

The guy cut him off, “How can you be so sure that was me?”

Ian looked around the street to find that, still, no one was around. This man sounded frustrated and tired and there were absolutely no witnesses if things got out of hand, “Well, first of all, you still have your earrings in.”

He watched as the man felt his earlobe with a free hand, eyes anxiously darting around.

“Your lips are stained like you were just wearing lipstick.”

He shuffled around, rubbing his mouth with the back of his long-sleeved white shirt, transferring some of the remaining pigment.

“And you’re carrying a duffle bag with a red wig hanging out of it.” 

They stared at each other, ignoring the one passing car with a driver who honked at them and yelled to get out of the road; excessively angrily for this time of day. 

“C’mon, let’s go get a beer or something. My treat.”

The guy stepped closer and narrowed in on Ian’s eyes, “Listen to me,” he readjusted the bag’s strap on his shoulder, “You’ve never seen me, you’ve never heard me, you’ve never met me. Got it?”

“I’m not gonna tell anyone if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Good,” he turned around to leave, speaking over his shoulder, “Keep it that way.”

Ian was confused, to put it lightly, “Can I at least know your name?”

“No.”

He was left alone in an abandoned street after being sort of threatened by the same person who just gave him a lap dance. The same person who whispered softly into his ear, who ground down on his lap, who bent over in front of him, begging to be spanked. How was someone who seemed so loving, really be cold and dismissive?

This wasn’t the last of it, though. No, this wasn’t the last of it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song: no scrubs by tlc

In the weeks following their initial encounter, things shifted. There was no more contact, eyes, physical, or otherwise. Anna would perform and ignore Ian to the point where even Mandy was asking what the hell happened. How did they go from giving him a lap dance to not even acknowledging his twenty-dollar bill being held in their air within seven days? 

Ian didn’t tell her anything, of course. He kept their meeting a secret despite her insistence that something had gone on and continuous accusations that he was lying; he was. He explained to her what he had thought all along, that this was their job and he was a mouse caught in a trap. It meant nothing and now they were moving on to the next easy target. 

The first week after meeting, he sat on the same bench after the show and waited for them to come creeping and cursing out of an alley like before. He repeatedly checked his phone for the screen to read two and, like clockwork, someone came trudging out of the darkness with the same blue duffle bag hung on his shoulder. 

Ian strode toward him with much more confidence this time; he was just a tad bit flustered last week. Once the man noticed his presence, he groaned and rolled his eyes, letting his head fall back in irritation, “What the fuck did I tell you?” he spoke into the air cool night air above him.

“I just wanna talk to you, that’s it,” Ian tried to negotiate, hoping his blatant display of desperation with make the stranger sympathize with him. 

He was pushed to the side as the guy stepped past him without responding.

“Please, just-” he pleaded, trying to catch up to the man who was nearing on speed-walking, “my name’s Ian, can you please stop-” he grabbed one of the guy’s shoulders to keep him from going any further, but he managed to wiggle out of Ian’s grasp.

“You already told me that, no and leave me alone.”

Ian gave up and stood in the middle of the street as he saw his mystery man disappear onto another road. The fact that he had remembered their conversation and his name would be just enough to hold Ian over for another agonizing seven days. 

The week after that was the same, risking his life again by sitting alone on an abandoned street in the middle of the night. He waited and waited for something to happen, but nothing did. No one came out besides the bouncers and other staff members the later it got. By four a.m., he had to call it quits. Before he headed home, though, he walked in the opposite direction of his usual route home. He turned a corner that wrapped around the sides of the row of buildings and kept on until he reached another dark backstreet that seemed to lead an alternative back exit of the club. He figured they had already left for the night, and now knowing their secret escape, he made his way home. 

By the third week, he was ready to talk again. Work had originally been the thing he used to keep his mind off the guy with baby blue eyes and black hair or the woman with heels and red lips, his desires flip-flopped frequently, but not even that kept him occupied anymore. He’d be helping a patient and find himself getting lost in his thoughts, wanting nothing more than Friday to be there already. 

He met up with Mandy as usual and stole their typical spot at the end of the runway. The lights dimmed, the crowd roared and guitar strings came through the speakers while Anna began walking down the catwalk wearing nothing but lacy, red lingerie bottoms, dark heels and a silky, black robe, tied in a bow around their waist with their nipples peeking through the see-through material. Blonde hair was straightened down to the small of their back, signature cherry-bomb lipstick was painted on their mouth and long strands of diamonds fell from their ears. 

The past couple weeks, the songs they performed to weren’t anything special. Or at least nothing that Ian could connect to himself. They were just current, generic pop songs he figured they used because everyone would know the words. He assumed this one was just the same until a voice came pumping into the room, filling his ears with another familiar, but old, song as Anna sauntered over, freezing directly above him, glaring down as they mouthed the words.

“A scrub is a guy that thinks he’s fly and is also known as a busta,” they plucked bills from hands and crunched the wad in their hands with no pocket or bra to stuff it in. They kept flickering their eyes back to Ian right after stealing twenties, fifties and even hundreds from strangers, “Always talkin’ ‘bout what he wants and just sits on his broke ass.”

“So, no, I don’t want your number,” they squatted down in front of Ian, narrowing in on just him and forgetting that there were hundreds of other people in the room staring just so he knew they were speaking to him through the lyrics, “No, I don’t wanna give you mine and no, I don’t wanna meet you nowhere, no, I don’t want none of your time.”

They stood up, eyes still locked with Ian as the latter’s face began turning a light shade of pink, blushing from a combination of the blatant contact mixed with everyone else in the fucking place gazing at him like he was some sort of zoo animal.

The chorus picked up and lights began flashing, “No, I don’t want no scrub,” they looked Ian up and down and Ian could swear it was it not in an angry or irritated manor, “a scrub is a guy that can’t get no love from me.”

Leaning over, they took the twenty out of Mandy’s fingertips, gazing deep into her eyes, the same blue as theirs, “Hangin’ out the passenger side of his best friend’s ride,” they averted their focus to Ian then back to Mandy, “tryin’ to holla at me.”

Ian saw them swallow roughly as they collected themselves and headed down the runway, continuing with the lyrics and never returning to them again. When the show ended and they disappeared from the stage, all Mandy could muster up was a, “What the fuck?” 

“What?” Ian asked dumbly, knowing exactly what.

“I feel like I know her,” Mandy opened the door they came in through not ten minutes ago, a gust of cold air penetrating their skin, “when she looked at me like that it was like I’d seen her before, but I don’t know where.”

“Probably just déjà vu,” he pulled out his pack of cigarettes and put one between his lips before handing his new best friend her own, “shit happens all the time. Think you’ve seen somethin’ before but it’s all in your head, ya know?” 

“Yeah,” Mandy lit up and they both took a drag in sync, releasing plumes of smoke from their nostrils, “yeah, that’s probably it.”

She seemed unconvinced, but truthfully, Ian was just relieved she wasn’t asking about why Anna had singled him out after two weeks of radio silence. He didn’t let himself think too much about the lyrics, about how they basically called him a broke, ugly, deadbeat loser with no chance in hell of ever getting with them. He knew they would meet again tonight, he already had a plan, so he just enjoyed the intoxicating nicotine with Mandy until all of the sweaty bodies hopped into what had to have been at least fifty Ubers and they were left alone. 

“Alright,” she tossed her finished cigarette on the concrete and stubbed it out with her black ankle boot, “I gotta go.”

“Be careful,” he spoke as she made her way into the street. He had only known her for a month and a half, only seeing her for about an hour a week, but in that short amount of time, he knew she could take care of herself; she didn’t need to be told to be careful, be safe, watch for cars and creepy men, but he continued to remind her out of habit.

He was by himself again, sitting on the park bench playing games on his phone and watching his bro-friends from work take shots off girls’ belly buttons. This week, the hours seemed to pass by quicker than usual. Maybe it was because he knew when and where the mystery man would come out of and that he would talk to him if he was just patient instead of all the unknowns, keeping him trapped in a second state of anxiety, paralleled to that of which he was fearing being stabbed or robbed. 

So, he stayed. He waited and waited, eventually going over the lyrics in his head out of pure boredom. Deadbeat ass? He wasn’t a deadbeat. He had a job, he had a nice, well, he had an apartment, and he was able to make ends meet on his own. Was he collecting hundreds, possible thousands, of dollars from strangers every week? No, but he could if he wanted to. He could fall back into that if he so pleased, but it was unnecessary. Because he wasn’t a deadbeat. 

Going through this kind of indirect kind of direct insults was making him angrier by the minute. He wanted to make it clear that he wasn’t what they thought he was. He was more than just some guy at a club, pining after a drag queen, so desperate for their attention. How could they think so highly of themselves?

Eventually, after one too many rounds of Solitaire, he walked over and stood behind the brick wall, periodically peeking around the corner to see if anyone was there. It was becoming later and later, two o’clock had come and gone, three and three thirty slowly following, causing his anxieties to come crawling back. Maybe he was wrong, maybe this wasn’t another exit. Maybe the guy lived in the building? But why would he be leaving every night with all his belongings? 

He was frustrated and tired, eyes barely managing to stay open, until he was shocked awake by a door opening and slamming shut, trailed by a recognizable, “Fuck!”

Ian poked his head out, only to see exactly who he knew it was. The guy forcefully sat himself down on a bench and pulled his phone out, presumably scheduling an Uber or finding a way to get home without going in front of the club. 

“Hey!” Ian said probably a little too loudly, with it being almost four a.m. He sped up his walking when the other man got up and started making a run for it. No, he wasn’t going to get away. Ian was prepared to run for miles if he had to and this guy trying to escape was just irritating his more with head footstep, “Let me talk to you.”

The black-haired guy stopped and turned around, holding his phone up to Ian, “Do I gotta call the fucking cops on you or what?”

Ignoring his threat, Ian continued, “Something happened when you gave me that dance. You and I both know it, you’re just too scared to admit it.”

“You think you’re the first guy I’ve given a dance to?”

“Yes,” he nodded his head, “I do, because my friend Mandy’s being coming here for three years and she told me she’s never once seen you do that shit to anyone else.”

“Whatever, man,” he turned around to walk away, stuffing his hands in his sweatshirt pockets.

“No, listen to me,” he spoke louder, not moving quite yet, “I know for a fact dancers don’t unzip a guy’s pants,” he started to step closer, entering the man’s bubble and strengthening his tone while the defiant one gave in and turned around, “whisper in his ear or bend over and beg to be spanked unless he’s offering you a shit ton of money or you’re actually interested in him,” he watched as the guy swayed on his feet and chew on the inside of his lip, eyes avoiding Ian’s stare, “and as far as I remember, because according to you I’m a broke piece of trash, I only gave you a twenty, so… you’re left with the other option.”

They both went silent until the shorter man fought back, “What makes you think you have any idea what the fuck I do to get paid?”

“Because I was a dancer,” Ian fired back, barely leaving a space between the two sentences, “and I never once laid a finger on a guy unless he had a stack of hundreds in his pocket.”

He noticed the man’s demeanor change, like for the first time he realized they may have had more in common than he thought. His eyes went soft, the muscles in his face relaxed, no longer seized, as he spoke gently and genuinely curious, “You’re a dancer?”

“I was,” Ian shrugged and ran some fingers through his hair before scrunching his face up and shaking his head in confusion, “but that’s not the point and I’m not gonna answer your questions until you answer mine.” 

The guy licked his lips and flicked his head in an invitation for Ian to follow him, “Come on.”

“What?” Ian stayed put as the other began to create a separation between them, meandering down the road, “Where are you going?”

“You’re buying me breakfast,” he spoke over his shoulder, not breaking stride. 

Ian picked up the pace and caught up with him in no time, eventually trailing behind by only a few feet, eyes glued to his back, “It’s four in the morning?”

“Yeah, and I’m hungry,” he lead the way down different streets until they came up to a twenty-four hour diner, “so you’re buying me breakfast.”

There were a few individuals, looking tired and like they’d much rather be in bed, some in suits as if they were just stopping by for their morning caffeine fix before heading to the office. Ian followed him to the middle booth along the wall of windows and a waitress came over with menus.

“G’morning, gentleman,” she placed the laminated booklets in front of them, “can I get you guys some drinks? Coffee?”

“Yeah, two, please,” Ian said with a soft smile.

“Nah, I’ll have a Bloody Mary.”

Ian looked at him, a grin spreading across the latter’s lips as he pulled out his wallet before the woman even asked, “Don’t order for me.” He showed her his I.D, both said thank you and she walked away, leaving them to start their conversation. 

“So!” the guy perked up and spoke in an animated tone, mocking the whole situation and folding his hands on the table, “What do you wanna talk about?!” 

Ian couldn’t help but smile at his failed attempt to be uninterested, “What’s your name?”

“Next question,” the guy ended his act and started focusing on the list of food.

“I haven’t told anyone about us meeting, anything about you or who you are,” he flipped through the pages of his own menu, “I think I’ve earned a little trust.”

The guy fidgeted with a corner of the laminated book, bending the plastic back and forth. Ian could tell, even from not looking at him, that the wheels were turning in his head. He was conflicted and all Ian could do was wait and let him break down that first wall on his own terms, “You haven’t earned shit.” This was gonna be a long night.

“Come on,” Ian whined and turned to the breakfast page, “I promise I won't tell.” The guy just shook his head with a slight grin squishing his cheeks up, clearly enjoying the power he had over Ian, “What do you wanna know about me? I’ll tell you anything, just give me something to call you other than Anna.”

“Don’t wanna know anything, don’t care.”

“Now we both know that’s not true…” Ian leaned forward and arched a brow, waiting for his breakfast-mate to fill in the blank. He could see the guy contemplating it, thinking about revealing himself more than he already had and what that could potentially mean for himself and his part-time career.

He pursed his lips and looked Ian over, trying to find even an ounce of insincerity, but was met with only unfaltering genuineness. He rolled his eyes and gave in, “Mickey.” 

He looked up in surprise, seeing only the top of Mickey’s head, the lower half of his face covered by the menu, “Mickey,” he repeated, liking the way it rolled off his tongue.

“And don’t you dare say like that stupid fucking mouse or I swear to God I’ll get up and leave right now.”

“Relax,” Ian settled back into the seat, overflowing with the feeling of success, “I was gonna say like Cohen, but apparently you know what I’m gonna say before I even say it.”

“Who?” Mickey brought his menu down to fully look at Ian.

“Mickey Cohen?”

Mickey shrugged and shook his head, not understanding where this was going. 

“He was in the Italian American Mafia,” the waitress came back over and set their drinks on the table, “not as cool as a mouse with a girlfriend and a dog the size of himself, but oh well.”

“What can I get you boys?” she pulled out her pad of paper and licked the tip of her pen.

“I’m gonna get a short stack,” Mickey pointed to the item on the paper, “but can you make those banana, please?”

“Mhm,” she jotted down the order.

“And can I get a side of hash browns, a side of bacon and,” he sucked his lips in in thought, taking a short moment to decide, “some sourdough toast, extra toasted.”

Ian stared at him in disbelief, mouth slightly agape.

“I’m just gonna have French toast.”

“You want whipped cream and berries?” she gathered their menus and slid them under her armpit, waiting for Ian’s response. 

“Berries, no cream.”

She clicked her tongue and walked away. 

“No cream, huh?” Mickey swirled his drink around with the toothpick-stabbed olive, “Maybe I was right about you.”

“What do you mean?” Ian ripped open two pink packets of artificial sugar and poured them into his coffee.

“Pretty sure you’re straight.” 

Ian almost choked on his beverage, spraying the black liquid onto the table. Thankfully, it didn’t reach Mickey. He unfolded his napkin and began the cleanup, wiping droplets off his upper lip in the process, “Why would you think that?” Play it cool.

“You seem to be pretty into Anna,” Mickey moved his drink out of the way, not doing anything to help Ian mop his mess up, “you like the fantasy, not the reality.”

“That’s not true,” Ian crumpled up the soiled napkin and threw it to the side of the table, “I’m pretty into you. Not that Anna’s not beautiful or whatever,” he tried to save himself, “but I’m not into blondes.”

It was odd speaking about another person who was also the person sitting right in front of him. Was he referring to Anna correctly? Should he say, ‘you in drag’ instead? Was there some secret code to talk to drag queens out of drag about who they are in drag? He was getting a headache and the caffeine wasn’t helping. 

“Well, Anna’s got a whole buncha hair to choose from,” Mickey sipped from his straw, barely wincing at the spicy burn in the back of his throat, “you liked the red, though?”

Okay, so Anna was like a different person. Just don’t think of him as Anna. Or do? 

“Yeah, the red was nice,” Ian agreed, “but, ya know, black is the best.”

“I’ll let her know,” Mickey stifled a smile from the cheesy flirting, feeling like they were back in middle school. He searched his brain for a topic change, trying to end the silence, “Do I still get to ask you something since you squeezed my dumbass name outta me?” 

“Shoot.”

“It’s a two parter,” Mickey leaned back and briefly looked toward the kitchen to see if his fucking food was ready yet, “what do you do and why do you come to the club every week?”

“I’m an EMT,” Ian took another swig of his drink now that it had cooled down enough, “save people’s lives, wear the uniform, the whole enchilada,” he hoped maybe Mickey had a thing for a man in uniform, “and I started coming ‘cause my life was boring as shit and then I saw you and couldn’t stop going.”

“Alright, I don’t believe either of those answers,” Mickey huffed a laugh through his nose and absentmindedly moved his foot underneath the table to connect with Ian’s, “I was honest with you, you gotta be honest with me.”

“I’m telling you the truth,” Ian argued, “I was sitting on my couch one night, all the straight guys I work with were out partying and I felt like I needed some light in my life; there you were.”

“You’re gonna make me barf, stop trying to win me over with your bullshit stories,” Mickey teased and chugged the rest of his drink, still eyeing that goddamn kitchen.

“Whatever, you wanted an answer, that’s my answer,” smiling back, Ian picked his cup up and downed the rest of the coffee, moving his foot to rub against Mickey’s ankle and expecting him to pull away, get out of the booth and leave without another word, but he stayed.

Their food came and Mickey was like a predator feasting on its prey. It was as if he hadn’t eaten in days, weeks, the way he completely zoned out and forgot Ian was even there. Pancakes were first, then the hash browns and bacon, leaving the toast for him to slowly eat while Ian worked to finish his sugary bread, drowning in syrup. 

“Good?” Ian asked through a mouthful of cavity-creating goodness.

“Mhm,” Mickey rested back against the cushion and put a hand over his belly, still chewing his toast, “even better ‘cause I don’t gotta pay.”

They both smiled and waited for Ian to clear his plate. The waitress brought the bill and Ian paid, but Mickey insisted on covering the tip considering he had a shit ton of dollar bills stashed in his duffel bag. They left a couple bucks, waved goodbye to the woman and headed out, just as the breakfast rush began. 

“See you next week?” Ian asked loudly over the now busying streets with cars whizzing past.

“Kinda my job to be there, but yeah, sure, I’ll see ya,” Mickey pulled his phone out, “wanna share a ride?”

“I’ll walk if I have to pay,” he felt around his pocket for his pathetically thin wallet and thought about how true that lyric really was.

“Nah, my treat.”

Ian agreed and they stood around waiting for the car to show up. They shared a cigarette and bumped shoulders as they huddled up against the diner building to stay away from the sprinkling rain. 

Mickey methodically had the driver drop Ian off first, not wanting him to know where he lived; that was a boundary to cross on another day. They said their goodbyes and Ian reluctantly stepped out and watched the not-so-mystery man drive away.

Another week would be a piece of cake. He could handle seven days. He had gotten close enough to last him a month, although he was pleased that he wouldn’t have to wait that long. 

Only 6 days. 162 hours. 9,720 minutes. 583,200 seconds. He could handle this.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song: into you by ariana grande

“The fuck happened to you?”

Mandy was alone, back against the bricks with her arms folded across her chest to keep herself warm. Ian was late, way, way late. He was sprinting down the road toward her in a race against the clock. He knew it already past midnight, knew he had already missed the start of the show by the muffled music coming from inside the building, “I’m here, I’m here.”

“Where were you? I was about to leave,” Mandy handed the bouncer her cash, Ian did the same. They started entering the already crowded club, standing at the very back instead of their typical front row spot. 

“Boss put me on call,” Ian panted out, still trying to catch his breath from running all the way from his apartment, “I was getting ready and then some chick thought she went into labor- turns out it was Braxton hicks or whatever the fuck they’re called. Wasn’t even real.”

He pushed his sweaty hair back and adjusted his shirt, knowing full-well he looked like a disheveled, gross mess. Contemplating whether to charge his way through the audience or not, he connected with the song blasting over the speakers. Anna was almost done with their song, coming up on the last chorus, but he could tell something was off. 

They seemed stiffer, less enthusiastic about getting cash from strangers for doing next to nothing. He watched as they moved from the left side of the stage to the right, all while mouthing lyrics blandly with barely any expression on their face, “So, baby, come light me up, and maybe I’ll let you on it.”

Baby pink and white everything. Their heels were white with a fuzzy pink toe, white lace stockings were clasped to pink high waisted bottoms with a delicate bra, individual straps above it outlining their fake cleavage. The hair, though. The hair was bubblegum and old-fashioned, waved just perfectly and cut just above the shoulder. Individual sections were bobby pinned back to keep the hair out of their silver glitter covered eyes with fake lashes. Angelic was an understatement. 

“A little bit dangerous, but, baby, that’s how I want it,” they couldn’t see Ian, but he was gazing at them like he needed them to breathe. He watched as they moved around, the bottom of their ass just poking out under the fabric of their lingerie and cash flowing out of their bra. This was the most exposed they had ever been, usually having a robe to cover up their body, but everything was out in the open and he couldn’t help but think it was for him. It may have been a little narcissistic, but the song mixed with their mood shift conveniently happening when he wasn’t front row? They had dressed up, or down, for him.

“A little less conversation and a little more touch my body.” 

He turned to Mandy and she was on her phone, not even paying attention to what was going on around her, “I’m gonna go get closer.”

She hummed back, eyes never moving from her screen, as he left her side and pushed into the crowd. Being tall definitely helped with pushing people to the side, weaving his way through shirtless, wet bodies who were all holding cash up for Anna. He situated himself at the end of the runway and kept his focus on their eyes, waiting for the moment they’d catch a glimpse of him. 

“‘Cause I’m so into you, into you, into you.”

They turned around at center stage and that was it. They walked around, continuing to steal the cash from strangers, but never once looked away from Ian. Even bending down so painfully close to the edge of the platform, they were locked in. “Got everyone watchin’ us, so, baby, let’s keep it secret,” they took a bill from someone and seductively pulled their bottoms away from their hip and slid the twenty into in, still watching Ian, “a little bit scandalous, but, baby, don’t let them see it,” releasing the band, it snapped against their skin.

It was clear they were teasing Ian. Bending over with their legs spread wider than necessary, turning their head around to peek over their shoulder and watching Ian watch them. It was torturous and evil, but he was late and apparently, they were a just a little upset about it. 

They kneeled down and pulled a fan’s hand onto their thigh, “A little less conversation and a little more touch my body.” Ian watched as Anna’s fingers traced the hand that should be his – was his – and felt an unjustified bubble of jealousy form in the pit of his stomach. One meal together wasn’t reason enough to believe he had some sort of privilege in this queen’s life, but he couldn’t help it just like he couldn’t help being held up at work. All of this taunting was unfair, yet he was stuck as only an onlooker and couldn’t do anything about it.

Finally, their eyes disconnected for one last time as the song finished. He really hated that woman and her stupid fake fucking contractions for making him late.

The crowd shuffled out the doors until he and Mandy were left alone in the club per usual. She was leaning against the back wall with her hands in her pockets and pushed herself forward, silently leaning Ian out with everybody else. 

He pulled out his pack of cigarettes and went to hand her one like every other Friday, but she just shook her head as his mouth turned into a frown, “I can’t stay.”

Knowing she would tell him why without even asking, he lit up, let the smoke fill his lungs and let it out through his nose like a bull. 

“Got a date.”

Ian’s brows raised as he nodded and said enthusiastically, “Really?” He flicked the ash off the end onto the concrete, “At midnight?” Then again, who was he to judge. He had breakfast at four a.m. last week. 

“It’s with my roommate,” she caved and stole the cigarette, took a single drag and stuck it back between his fingers. 

“Hmm,” Ian blew a plume of smoke through his lips and playfully nudged her shoulder with his, “what’s his name?”

“ _Her_ name is none of your fuckin’ business,” she spoke with emphasis before walking backwards away from him, not caring about bumping into civilians waiting for their rides, “see you next week.”

Ian nodded and stubbed the cigarette out on the ground, kicking it over to the pile of other dead cancer sticks. He waited until everyone had left and took his seat on the bench to pass the time.

Sudoku and solitaire were his only friends during these hours, the only things to keep him occupied and prevent him from overthinking things. 

Growing up, he thought he was special for being able to solve a puzzle with little to no effort, able to see numbers that weren’t there. That was until his brother turned into some sort of high and mighty genius, taking the crown for the brains of the house. 

Every so often, he would check behind the corner to see if anything had changed, but was only met with the same overflowing dumpster and a stray cat roaming the alley. He considered leaving, understanding that Anna – Mickey – was feeling some type of way over him being late, but he decided against it. He wasn’t expecting much this week, wasn’t planning on taking him out for breakfast again, but he wanted something; just give him anything to hold onto for the next seven days. 

He checked again once it was nearing three o’clock, and at the same time, the door opened. Mickey came out with his duffle bag, wearing a t-shirt and sweats as it was getting closer and closer to summer. 

“Hey,” Ian started, softly. They walked toward each other to meet halfway.

Mickey adjusted the bag on his shoulder and wiped his stained lips on the back of his hand, trying to get any remaining residue off, “You were late.”

“I know, I got called into work,” he saw Mickey’s eyes roll.

“That’s what they all say,” the brunette pulled a pack of smokes and a lighter from his sweats held the flame to the end, not even bothering to offer one to Ian.

“It’s true,” Ian held his hand out to insinuate he wanted a hit, “I don’t lie.”

“Alright, Mr. I Save People’s Lives,” Mickey kept the cigarette, “What happened?”

“A woman thought she was going into labor, so my stupid, straight coworkers who don’t know how to do their fuckin’ job called me flippin’ out ‘cause they’ve never delivered a baby, but I have,” Ian forcefully stole the stick from Mickey’s fingers and continued speaking fluently. “The whole thing’s kinda funny considering they talk about how much pussy they get, but had to call a gay guy to handle that one.”

Mickey let him have that one, fished another cig out from his stash and spoke around it as it hung between his lips, “How long did it take you to come up with that pathetic excuse of a story, huh?”

“You really think I would intentionally miss seeing you?”

“I don’t know you, man,” Mickey walked past Ian and turned onto the street, not necessarily ditching Ian, but not begging him to follow either. “You could have a husband and fuckin’ twenty kids for all I know. This your secret place? Sneak outta bed and use me to get your rocks off? Husband don’t do it for you anymore?”

“Okay, how long did it take _you_ to come up with _that_ pathetic excuse of a story, huh?” Ian trailed behind him, barely paying attention to where they were headed. 

Mickey just turned his head to peek over his shoulder and grinned. Ian couldn’t tell if it was genuine or sarcastic, but honestly, he didn’t care. 

“Where are we going?” Ian finally asked after he and his long ass legs caught up with Mickey and his short ones. He realized they were taking a roundabout way to get to the El, but he wasn’t sure why.

“I’m going home, I dunno where the fuck you’re going,” Mickey kept his stride, hardly looking over at the taller man.

He wasn’t going to say anything else. Mickey was going home and not telling Ian to leave? Fine by him.

“You looked really good tonight, you know,” Ian noticed how the bag was straining on Mickey’s shoulders, constantly forcing him to hoist it up repeatedly.

“I know I did,” he fixed the bag again, creating a dip in his flesh, “shoulda seen the whole thing.”

“You’re tellin’ me,” Ian quickly yanked the bag out of his grip and put it over his right shoulder, the furthest from Mickey, who, not so surprisingly, fought back immediately. 

“Give me it back,” he chased Ian around in a circle, just trying to get a hold on the strap, “I’m serious, dude, give it back to me.”

“Why, whatcha got in here?” Ian unzipped it and was met with that pink wig and fuzzy heels.

“Thousands of dollars’ worth of makeup and shit,” Ian held it up over Mickey’s head. “Give it back, you tall ass piece of shit.”

He was hard-faced and firm, staring up with eyes Ian never wanted to see, or cause, again. He may have been short, but Ian was sure he could get beat the fuck up if he held onto that bag for one more second. “Here,” he brought it down and Mickey instantly grabbed it, zipped it back up and flung it over his shoulder, continuing to walk down the empty street, “just tryin’ to help you.”

“I don’t need your help,” it was flat and unemotional. “Why are you still following me?”

Ian’s heart sank to his stomach and every harsh piece of reality came flooding back. He was naïve enough to believe he was about to go to Mickey’s house and do God knows what. He was a fan and Mickey was the entertainer. That’s all it was. 

“Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t know that stuff was so expensive,” Ian babbled and partially stuttered, hoping to dig himself out of this hole. 

Mickey stopped and pinched the bridged of his nose, again, adjusting the bag. He turned around and looked much softer, more forgiving, “No, I’m sorry for snapping. Tryin’ to work on this shit, but I’m not doin’ a very good job.” They stood a couple feet away from each other, neither moving to close the gap, “But you should go home, though. I’m tired and you are too, I can tell.”

Ian imagined how his eyes looked; hooded with dark circles. How he had been up since seven that morning and hadn’t eaten since six that evening. He was tired, but he would stay awake for days if it meant he could have more time with this man.

Hesitantly, he nodded and started stepping away. 

“I swear I’m not mad, it’s just- my fuckin’ feet hurt from those heels and I’m hungry and I like to keep my highlighters intact,” he huffed out, attempting to lighten the mood.

“Highlighters? Like the pen?”

Mickey’s face was blank for a moment before turning into a full-on grin, using a fist to stifle the laugh that was trying to force its way out, “No, not like the pen.” He was swooning from the uneducated, unintentional charm coming from the younger man, “It’s super fragile makeup. If you broke the four I got in here, you owe me about two hundred bucks.”

The mood was back to how it was, light, airy and flirty.

“Two hundred bucks?” Ian’s jaw was slack in disbelief.

“Told you,” he started backing up, “shit’s expensive.”

“I’ll see you next week.”

“Try to be on time, huh?” Mickey joked, increasing the physical distance between them, decreasing the emotional. 

He would. He would fake sick, say a family member was in the hospital, say his nonexistent animal needed to go to the vet; anything to keep his word and make Mickey happy.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song: sexy dirty love by demi lovato

Ian fished out his pack of cigarettes and plucked two out, placing one between his lips and holding the other out for Mandy. She glanced at it hesitatingly before pushing it away and shaking her head, “Nah, I can’t.”

“Why?” he mumbled, words coming out through almost closed lips. 

She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, letting her back fall back against the brick wall as the line outside the club continued to grow, “No reason.”

Ian hummed with a grin, putting the extra stick back in the box and concealing it in his pocket again, “Girlfriend?” 

“Thinks it’s gross,” she began chewing on her nails in a failing attempt to satisfy the craving, “which it is, but she’s a fuckin’ vegan hippie who smokes weed like it’s goin’ out of style, so I don’t know where she gets off tellin’ me what to smoke.”

“Weed’s nasty,” Ian lit up, turning the end of the cigarette a bright orange, “smells like skunks.”

“I know,” she agreed enthusiastically, gazing at the plume of smoke emerging from Ian’s mouth and into the air above then, “that’s what I told her, but she’s all, ‘It’s medicinal,’ like, who the fuck cares? Not me.”

Ian let her stare, even blew some of the smoke in her direction to give her some relief. They relaxed next to each other, shoulder to shoulder, while the line kept getting longer. He crushed his finished bad habit underneath his shoe and discreetly kicked it backwards toward the wall when he noticed a large, bearded man walking down the sidewalk, scanning over each civilian waiting to enter the club. 

He was wearing a badge with the business’ name on it and a picture of himself looking highly intimidating, and holding a folder with what appeared to be a single sheet of paper tucked inside. He made his way slowly up the line until his eyes caught on Ian, breaking his stride to head toward him.

“Sir, I’m gonna need you to come with me,” his voice was deep and stern, shoulders broad.

Ian instantly clammed up, “What?”

“We have reason to believe you’ve been loitering around this premises,” words coming out mundanely, the only emotion barely readable was annoyance, “just need to ask you a couple questions.”

“Loitering?” his stomach was doing flips and tying itself into a million knots because, technically, he did, but he couldn’t admit his guilt, “I haven’t loitered?”

The man huffed and slightly rolled his eyes, “This you?” he opened the folder and held it out to Ian, angling it away from Mandy’s concerned eyes. He was expecting security camera footage of him waiting outside for weeks on end, but inside, Ian read the scribbled words written in pink ink on a plain piece of paper:

_scared ya. play along - a/m_

He could physically feel his body relax, muscles loosening from just the thought of Mickey, but kept his face blank. Nodding, he agreed with the guy, “Yeah, that’s me.” 

“What the fuck?” Mandy raised her voice as the man gripped Ian’s arm to lead him back down the line of people, “He didn’t do anything, why are you taking him?” 

“I’ll be back in a couple minutes,” he assured, “don’t worry about it.”

Mandy shook her head with knitted brows, arms flopping against her sides in defeat, “Whatever, man.”

Ian was pulled lightly down the side of the building and turned into the alley, reaching the entrance that Mickey comes out of every week. Once inside, the guy let go of his bicep and just walked in front of him down a hallway, turning to the left, then extending an arm to a cracked door as he kept walking, not saying a word. Ian slowed down and peeked into the room, eyes met with Mickey standing in front of a vanity, shirtless with only grey sweats on, waistband rolled down a couple times. 

Ian pushed the door open enough to slide inside, senses filled with floral perfume and pop music playing lowly in the background, “Hey.”

“Hey,” Mickey repeated and turned around as his mouth formed into a wide grin. His face was painted intricately, cheeks carved and glitter patted along his eyelids, “Did I getcha?” 

“Just a little,” Ian brought his pointer finger and thumb together, almost touching, and came up next to Mickey in front of the mirror. He eyed the products strewn across the counter in front of them, a thin sheen of power covering most things. “Did I break your thingamabobs last week?” 

Mickey smiled and shook his head, “Thingamabobs,” he said again like he couldn’t believe Ian had just vocalized such a word. “Highlighters,” he corrected, “and no, luckily for you, you didn’t.”

“Where are they?” Ian searched around, tenderly moving glass bottles of the palest foundation shades, careful not to get anywhere near breaking something. “Things were gonna cost me, what’d you say? Two hundred bucks? I wanna see what they look like,” some translucent powder transferred into his fingertips as he probed around, enamored at just how many items the guy had. 

Mickey dug deep into a bag and felt around for the pan, pulling some out and tossing it back in when they weren't the right ones. “Here,” a white, octagon shaped container was sat in his palm.

Ian took it from him and looked it over, “Fenty Beauty with a backwards N? What’s that?” 

“Rihanna’s brand,” Ian watched as Mickey grabbed what looked like a colored pencil and continued to work on his face, parting his mouth to draw a line along the underside of his bottom lip.

Ian hummed and opened the package, bringing the pink pressed powder up toward his eyes to give it a closer inspection. “How do you use it?” he was about to touch it with his finger before it was snatched away.

“Don’t touch it,” Mickey griped, “your fingers are nasty as fuck.” He didn’t give time for Ian to argue as he pulled a tool from another bag and held it up in front of him like an instructor, “You take the fan brush,” he swept it across the top of the product, “do this,” he tapped the handle of the brush a few times on the case to remove the excess powder, “and then put it on.”

He had already done this step, but added another layer for educational purposes. Ian was fixated on how the finely milled specks of glitter glided along his skin, bring a glow to his pale skin, “Why do you put it there?” 

“So when you turn your head and the light catches it,” he turned a certain way, making the strip of sparkles beam, “it reflects and makes your cheekbones look more prominent. Wanna make the high points of your face bright, hence the name highlighter. Get it?”

“Got it.”

“Good,” Mickey put the highlighter back into his bag and continued with his lips, filling inside the lines with a bright red, liquid to matte lipstick. “Is this even?” Mickey pointed toward his cupid’s bow, sticking his chin out.

Ian studied his work, comparing the peaks to each other. He didn’t let his eyes linger too long on how pump his bottom lip was, how the lipstick had started drying and settling into some tiny cracks along his mouth, unintentionally creating more depth and dimension to go with the rest of his contouring, “Yeah, I think so. What’s that saying? Siblings, not cousins or something?”

“Eyebrows are sisters, not twins,” Mickey faced the mirror again and smacked his lips together. “Nothin’ to do with lips.”

Casually leaning back against the counter, Ian just watched as Mickey used a steady hand to do some final touches to his own brows, flicking his pencil to create individual faux hairs, “You’re really good at makeup, you know that?” 

“Yes, I know,” Mickey smiled back, finally zipping up his bags and dusting the powder fallout off his bare chest, “but you gotta go, I gotta get dressed.”

“Alright,” Ian looked around and noticed the skimpy outfit hanging on the closet door handle. He didn’t move, though, mind wandering to just how Mickey could possibly… _fit_ in that, “Can I ask you something?”

“Hm?” Mickey absentmindedly answered as he brought his wig out and began brushing through the long, blonde hair.

“Does it,” he paused, unsure of how to word his question, “hurt?”

Mickey continued working through the minor tangles in the hair, “What?”

“You know…” Ian waited for Mickey to turn his attention toward him to tilt his head down at his crotch and looked up to meet his eyes, “it.”

“What, my dick?” Mickey said, slightly taken aback. He raised his brows, frowned, and shrugged, going back to his wig, not feeling the least bit ashamed or embarrassed, “It’s not the most comfortable thing in the world.” He found a rat tooth comb and used the pointed end to create a cleaner part along the fake scalp, “You get used to it after the first time. I think heels hurt more, but that’s just me.” 

“Where does it go?”

That made Mickey stop what he was doing, turning his whole body to face Ian. He had a smirk on his lips and his eyes barely narrowed. Truthfully, it was kind of pathetic to Mickey, how someone could be so uneducated on such a simple task, so he let himself feel some pity and didn’t get _too_ snarky, “Where do you think it goes?”

“No,” Ian shook his head, a blush creeping up on him, “that’s not fair, just tell me.”

“No, come on,” he was amused beyond belief, “I really wanna know where you think my dick is right now.”

Ian pleaded with his eyes, silently begging to not have to speak. Mickey’s were too stern, though, breaking Ian down and making him cave, “Fine, whatever.”

“Alright, lay it on me.”

“It’s either,” he stuck a thumb out, taking a moment to go through the options in his head, “on your hip.”

“Give me your hand,” Mickey grabbed it before Ian could protest and forced it down to his right hip, then his left. He kept his stare on Ian while the latter was slack-jawed looking at just how close his fingertips were to wherever Mickey’s cock was, “What does that feel like to you? Feel like a dick?”

Ian collected himself and closed his mouth, shaking his head, “Feels like a hipbone.”

“Exactly,” he released Ian’s hand and made a motion with his own to have the other man continue. “What’s your other option?”

Ian gnawed on his lip, trying to decide whether or not to even go through with saying his second idea, “Nah, it’s stupid, forget I even asked.”

“No, _no_ , tell me or, uh,” Mickey shrugged, “I won’t let you back in here after the show.”

He knew that would get Ian, that he wouldn’t turn down that offer for anything. Ian gave him an irritated glance before averting his eyes out of pure and utter humiliation, “Is it, like…” he started, speaking way softer now, not wanting to say it, “pushed inside?” 

Mickey’s eyes widened as a laughed bubbled up his throat, “Pushed inside? What, like a bellybutton? You think my dick’s like a fuckin’ accordion?” 

“See, I told you it was stupid,” Ian laughed with him, covering his face with both hands as Mickey completely lost it, letting every girly, giggly noise out and not stifling a single one. “Okay, I get it, I get it,” Ian waved a hand out, silently asking for this conversation to end, “I never asked, ignore everything I ever say, ever.”

“No, Ian,” Mickey attempted to control himself, using a fist to block his mouth, “my dick is not pushed inside my body. How the fuck would that even work? Where would it go?”

“I don’t know, don’t listen to me,” Ian dismissed, cheeks still a light shade of pink.

“You wanna know?” he asked, gathering the supplies he uses once a week, “I’ll tell you where it is, you should know this shit.”

“You don’t have to, it’s fine,” Ian tried to negotiate, “I’ll go, I’ll see you later, okay?”

“No, hold on, here,” Mickey lined up the two items, making it seem way easier than Ian thought. “Alright, first, you gotta shave. Learned that the hard way.”

Ian stammered and started stepping away, “I- I’m not doing whatever that is, man, not today.”

“Relax,” Mickey assured, grabbing his wrist to bring him back closer. “Again, step one: shave. Step two: wrap your dick in toilet paper,” he held up his roll he brings with him each week, knowing the club’s brand is too cheap and thin, “otherwise it hurts like a son of a bitch. Learned that the hard way, too.”

He watched as Mickey put the tissue away, stuffing it back into his blue duffel bag. 

“Step three: take this tape,” he modeled a box of athletic tape, “not duct tape or any of that harsh shit, sticks too much. You take a big ol’ strip of it and yank it back to your ass. Repeat that a couple times to make sure it’s secure, and there you have it. Easy peasy fake vagina.”

From the look on Ian’s face, Mickey could tell he was mortified. His hand went down to his own crotch, gently cupping his cock with both hands, able to feel the assumed pain Mickey was currently in. Like when a dad gets pregnancy pains, he was beginning to notice a twinge of discomfort coming from that area, “Are you fucking serious?” 

“As a heart attack,” Mickey spent a moment organizing things, hoping Ian would take the hint and leave without him having to say so, but he was wrong. Ian remained standing, just watching his hands as he twisted lids on bottles, closed zippers, gathered all the dirty brushes that needed to be kept away from the clean. It was nice to have company, nice to have someone at least somewhat interested in his art, but Ian need to go, “Alright, you really gotta go, though. I need to get ready.” 

“Okay,” reluctantly, Ian started stepping backwards toward the door. It was stupid to not want to leave and he knew it. He’d walk outside, pay the entrance fee, and within a few minutes see him – or Anna – again, then he’d see Mickey afterwards, so why was leaving so difficult? “You’re gonna let me back in here after, though, right?” 

“Yeah, I’ll have someone come get you,” Mickey spoke to him through the mirror, making eye contact and giving a small smile. 

“‘Kay,” Ian walked into the hallway and peered back into the room, “break a leg.”

He didn’t leave any time for a response as he shut the door and headed back the way he came, turning a corner to reach the exit, and was immediately enveloped by a gust of cool air. He made his way back around to the front of the club, seeing only Mandy left waiting outside. She heard his footsteps and instantly perked up, “The fuck happened to you? What’d they say?” 

“Just wanted to ask me some questions, make sure I wasn’t some creep,” Ian walked past her and handed the bouncer his cash, entering the club and waited for her. “Wasn’t even me in the pictures, just said it was.” 

They pushed their way through, Ian paving the way while Mandy was dragged behind, hands gripped to the sides of his jacket like they were one body. They separated only when they reached the stage, standing shoulder to shoulder to wait for Anna. 

“Why’d you lie, then? I would’ve flipped the fuck out if they accused me of shit like that.”

Ian stifled a smile, happy to let her continue to live in oblivion, “Not a big deal.”

Anna came out, did their gig, kept their eyes on Ian the entire time as if performing for only him, and disappeared into the wings again, leaving Ian to anxiously wait for everyone to go home so he could spend more time alone with them. 

He smoked while they waited outside, Mandy struggling to deny her craving. She stayed strong, though, pulling out a piece of gum to chew on, the scent of mint barely masking the addictive nicotine trailing into her personal bubble. 

As the crowd dispersed, the more he chewed on his nails and picked at the skin on his thumb, doing whatever he could to keep his nerves at bay. It didn’t matter what they did, where they went, or how long they spent together, he just needed to be around Mickey again.

He figured he would sit and watch Anna wash their mask off and transform back into Mickey, they would say their goodbyes, and go their separate ways, which would be fine. He’d have to deal with it, learn how to accept that just because they’re talking more now, that doesn’t mean they’re dating or that he has any sort of right to spend time with him; he would have to take what he was given and like it.

“Alright, I’m gonna head out,” Mandy was the last to leave, throwing her now flavorless gum into the trash and replacing it with a fresh piece, “see you next week.”

Ian nodded in her direction and gave a small wave, taking his seat on the bench as he watched her disappear into the darkness. He was itching to just go inside on his own, sneak in and make a move, but he stayed put. Mickey said he would have someone come get him, so he’d wait.

His patience was soon rewarded. After about five rounds of Sudoku, the exit door opened again and a whistle rang into his ear, signaling him to get his ass over there or his chance would be taken away just as quickly as it was given. 

He jogged lightly until he rounded the corner and the same intimidating man could see him, slowing down to a walk and entering in front of the security guard this time. His memory took him down the hallway and to the left, right back to where he was not an hour ago. 

The door was shut instead of cracked, so he used a single knuckle to tap a little rhythm and spoke lowly, trying to keep his presence to a minimum, “Hello?” 

Mickey, still with a full face of makeup on, opened the door for him and let him squeeze past. Ian shut it behind him, Mickey went back to his station in front of the mirror, “So? What’d ya think?”

“Really good,” Ian smiled, watching as the red lipstick was smeared around with a white cloth, “really, really, good.” 

Humming, Mickey threw the red-stained wipe into a mini trashcan and pulled a new one out, “Can you do me a favor?”

Ian saw the highlighter be washed away, the contour pulled off his skin, and although he was thinking about what a waste of time and money makeup is, he was distracted by Mickey’s face being revealed, “What?”

“Grab that bag in the corner and count the cash inside,” eyebrows were next, rubbing back and forth to release the glue from his real hairs. “Don’t steal any, though,” he gave Ian a small smile, making him look almost Joker-like with the red lipstick completely surrounding his mouth.

“You mean I can’t take my sixty bucks back?” Ian teased and moved to obey his request. The bag was light, feeling almost empty, the sound of paper bills scratching against each other being the only sign there was something inside. He pulled it into his lap as he sat crisscross applesauce on the ground and unzipped it, jaw instantly falling slack at the sight, “Holy shit.”

Ones, fives, tens, twenties, a couple fifties, and the rare hundred were all crumpled together, forming what looked like an endless pit of cash. He let his hand sift through it, the scent of dirty, used money transferring onto his fingers. 

He dumped everything onto the carpet and separated the bills into groups, then compiled them into stacks equaling a hundred until he had five perfect rows, each totaling five hundred dollars, “God damn.” 

“How much?” Mickey had removed the majority of his mask, now only working on getting the stain off his mouth while irritating his skin at the same time, adding insult to injury, making the lower half of his face even more pink. He turned around to watch Ian calculatingly count his earnings again, just to make sure his brain wasn’t fucking with him.

“Twenty-five hundred,” Ian stared up at him, lips still slightly parted. 

“Eh,” Mickey went back to looking into the mirror, throwing the last makeup wipe away, giving up on trying to fix the catastrophe plastered across his mouth, “that’s nothin’.”

“ _Nothing?_ ” Ian arranged the piled on top of each other and tried to fold it in half, but the wad was just too thick. He was tempted to throw it up in the air and bath in it, never having held that much cash at one time, “This would pay my rent for like, three months.”

“I’m kidding,” Mickey looked at him through the mirror with a smile, “but I did make five grand one time a couple years ago during Pride. This place was fuckin’ _packed_ , pretty sure two of that was just in hundreds.”

“Shit,” Ian kept counting and recounting, wanting to hold onto this moment forever.

Mickey packed everything up and threw a t-shirt on, tied up his converse, threw the blue duffel bag over his shoulder, and held a palm out to a still-sitting Ian, “Come on, give it up.”

It took everything Ian had to place the bundle in his hand, his fingers lingering for way longer than necessary. He stood up and flattened out his shirt and jeans, “That took a lot less time than usual.”

“I stay in here for a couple hours so creeps like you don’t see me walkin’ out,” Mickey joked, stuffing the cash in the pocket of his sweats, forming a very prominent bulge over his thigh. 

“Yeah, how’d that work out for ya?” 

Ian followed Mickey out into the hallway, “Fuckin’ fantastically.”

Once they were outside, Mickey came to a stop and checked his phone for the time, “It’s only one, what do you wanna do?” 

Ian checked their surroundings, everything dark and bleak; lifeless. He shrugged at the shorter man, hating himself for drawing a blank during such a vital opportunity, “I dunno, whatever you wanna do.”

“I wanna go home and sleep, but that’s pretty goddamn boring,” he sat down on Ian’s bench, waiting for a response. “I’ll go wherever you wanna go, as long as it isn’t your house or some grimy motel. Pick something.”

His brain was scrambling, trying to think of something, _anything_ , to do, “We could go to the diner again?” 

“Nah,” Mickey shook his head calmly, “not hungry.” He looked up at Ian who was still standing with his hands packed into his pockets. Letting himself take the seemingly younger man in, eyes trailing from his head to his toes, he couldn’t figure out why this beautiful, tall, chiseled, guy with a jawline sharp enough to cut wanted anything to do with him, “Could go for a drink, though?” 

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Ian agreed and internally punched himself for not thinking of that. Easy, simple, casual. Just two guys getting a drink. No biggie. 

Mickey stood back up and started walking down the street, “You seem like the clubbing kinda guy, you gotta pick the place.” 

“I think there’s a place a couple blocks away,” Ian started leading the way, easily passing Mickey up with his leg length advantage. “What do you mean by ‘clubbing kinda guy’? You work in a club.” 

“Yeah, but _you_ had to go clubbing to find me at a club.”

“Not quite how that happened, but whatever,” he forced himself to slow down his pace to keep in time with Mickey and his short limbs, taking steps about half the size of his normal strides. 

“I’m too old. I never go anywhere,” Mickey unintentionally knocked arms with Ian and ignored the desire to do it again.

Ian scrunched his face up, “You’re not old, the fuck are you talking about?” 

Mickey didn’t respond, just continued walking next to Ian. He left enough space in between them to prevent any more bumping, but stayed close enough to barely fulfill the yearning for contact.

They reached the place, bright lights flashing and music pumping loud enough to flow outside. Mickey paid their entry fee, letting Ian know that he was buying the drinks in the process. The crowd was alive, people gyrating around the floor, dancing freely and carelessly. They found a booth along the wall and slid in. Ian made a point to let Mickey know the table was probably taken, the half full cups and napkins a dead giveaway, but Mickey just replied with a simple yet true, “Ya snooze, ya lose.”

They admired everything going on around them for a moment, giving their ears time to adjust to the bass shaking deep within. Mickey cleaned up the table, collected the glasses and pushing them to the edge, throwing the napkins on the ground because who the fuck cares, and used a clean one to wipe away some kind of gross, sticky residue, making his forearms feel glued to the surface. 

“See what I mean?” Mickey leaned into Ian’s ear so he could hear him over the music. “My almost twenty-seven-year-old ass is sittin’ here cleaning. I’m old,” when he pulled away, Ian just shook his head and grinned. 

Ian then leaned into Mickey, lips on the verge of brushing against his earlobe, “Gonna go get drinks. What do you want?” 

Mickey just copied the position, face fitting perfectly into the other side of Ian’s neck, “Long Island.” 

Nodding, Ian scooted out of the seat and left Mickey on his own. Once Ian had disappeared into the crowd, he opened his pet webcam app to check on his cats, and at that moment, he truly felt incredibly out of place. Hundreds of people grinding on each other, designs drawn in neon paint all over their bodies, and here he was, alone, in sweats and a t-shirt, watching his cats sleep through his phone. Pathetic.

He saw Ian’s mouth move, saying something that looked like ‘here’, but everything was too loud and overstimulating, he wasn’t completely sure. His fancy drink was placed in front of him, Ian’s beer was next, before he slid back into the booth. He settled close enough to the older man to where their knees were only centimeters apart, which wasn’t his best idea; the urge to move and touch him somewhere was like electricity running through his veins – his knee could twitch and it would be absolutely out of his control. 

Ian squeezed a slice of lime into his Corona, dropping the piece into the beer and taking a sip. Mickey did the same with his slice of lemon and winced at how strong the drink was coming up through a straw, but it was just what he needed; needed to feel a burn in one way or another. 

“You gonna dance?” Ian hardly had to move, his face already so close to Mickey’s ear. Mickey gave a firm shake of his head, wordlessly shutting that question down. “Come on, dance with me. You’re so good at it.”

“Yeah, in drag,” he spoke loud enough for Ian to hear without having to put his face anywhere near him, staring straight ahead into the crowd. “You dance, I’ll watch. Flip the script.”

“Too shy,” he had only had about half his beer, but was already feeling loose and slightly more confident.

Mickey shrugged and gave up on the straw, filling his whole mouth with alcohol and gulping it down until there was nothing left. He visibly shuddered from the taste, sticking his tongue out with a ‘gah’ noise, regretting that decision. 

Ian followed his lead, chugging the rest of his beer and slamming the bottle on the table, “Want another?” 

If he was going to drink, he was going all out. He pushed his empty glass the short distance to Ian, “Yeah, please.”

Again, he was left alone, legs feeling like warm noodles, some heat still radiating down his throat and into his belly. He restrained himself from watching the cats again and focused on the strobe lights and dancers, eyes unable to find one thing to give his full attention to. 

He wasn’t even all the way back to the table when Ian stopped walking and let his mouth fall open and his head fall back, listening to the song blasting through the speakers. He finished his trip and handed Mickey his drink, swallowing down half of his second beer in one go, “I love this song.” 

Mickey knew it, knew the song and the meaning behind the lyrics, and he silently prayed to whatever God there was to make Ian not do what he thought he was about to do.

The man upstairs had never been on his side.

Ian was clearly drunk, dancing around in front of their table like nobody was watching; not even Mickey. It was too noisy to tell, but Mickey was almost positive he was actually singing out loud to the lyrics, not just miming them, “Hittin’ me up late, always be blowin’ up my phone.”

He clutched his heart with both hands, eyes closed, “I’m lyin’ awake wonderin’ why I’m still alone.” He extended an arm up toward the ceiling, “Lord knows I am sinnin’,” his arm dropped and pointed at Mickey, “please forgive me for my lust. Sendin’ pictures back and forth, babe I’m cravin’ your touch.”

“You’re my new obsession,” he used both index fingers to point at Mickey, singling him out among the crowd. He stumbled forward and yanked on Mickey’s hand, pulling him from the booth, “Let go of any hesitation.” Mickey fought it, tried to twist his wrist out of Ian’s grasp, but before he knew it, he was standing and Ian was dancing around him, causing a scene, “Baby, be my new addiction, intoxicate me gently with your loving.”

Admittedly, no one was watching them. They were two of who knows how many people standing in this warehouse-like club, and Mickey had no reason to hold back, so he didn’t. Alcohol was a bitch.

He joined in with Ian, singing the words, “You got me so high,” extending the last word. “Pull me closer into you and watch our bodies intertwine,” Ian’s confidence had him on a high, carefree and assertive, coming up behind Mickey and wrapping his arms around his shoulders. Mickey initially tensed out of habit, but when Ian started swaying, either to the beat or because he was dizzy, he latched his hands onto Ian’s forearms and let himself go for a moment, “I feel so alive.” He could feel Ian’s breath on the column of his neck, like he was nuzzled in and had completely forgotten about the song. That was until he spoke directly into Mickey’s hear, words hot and humid against his skin, “You know what I’m thinkin’ of, got me dreamin’ ‘bout that sexy dirty love.” 

Within the few seconds Mickey had left their table, another group and snagged it and pushed the fresh drinks to the edge with the rest of the dirty glasses. Mickey peeled Ian’s arms off him, keeping his hands on his biceps for a moment to make sure he wouldn’t topple over while standing on his own. He grabbed their drinks, sneakily flipped the strangers off, and pushed Ian toward the wall nearest the exit. 

“Drink this, don’t waste it,” Mickey handed Ian his still-full beer and Ian downed it. Mickey finished his off, putting the empty containers on the floor, not caring at all. Ian was on him again, same position as before. His chest was pressed tightly against Mickey’s back, lips dangerously close to kissing his neck, “Alright, that’s enough,” Mickey smiled and tilted his head to the other side. He heard Ian giggling from behind him, making his heart feel like it was swelling, although he’d never admit it, “You’re so drunk.”

Ian held his pointer finger and thumb close together in front of Mickey’s eyes, mumbling slurred words into his ear, “Only a little.”

“Come on, let’s go,” Mickey started walking back outside, dragging Ian along with him. He managed to successfully get Ian seated on a bench, albeit slightly slouched, but he was fine. Mickey sat next to him and pulled his phone out to schedule an Uber, “What’s your address?” 

Ian shook his head, grinning from ear to ear. He pinched his fingers and pulled them across his lips, pretended to lock the zipper, and threw the invisible key away. 

“You’re not gonna tell me?”

“Nope,” Ian was giddy and silly, acting painfully immature, but the way he was leaning on Mickey for support made it all fine. 

Ordinarily, Mickey wouldn’t let any of this happen. No touching, no flirting, no dancing; nothing. But with the way this guy was acting, how incoherent he was, how blatantly inebriated and intoxicated he had made himself, it was obvious he wouldn’t remember anything. At least Mickey hoped so, expecting nothing from the guy upstairs, but wishing for just one favor. 

He wasn’t about to sit out there on a bench all night with a drunk guy he barely knew, so he booked an Uber anyway.

He’d deal with the repercussions later, right now he just wanted to sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kind of a filler chapter, so no song for this one

Ian was woken up by the smell of bacon and little balls of paper towel being shot at the back of his head. He had no idea where he was, who was throwing these fucking things at him, or how he had been covered up with this thick, chunky knit blanket, cocooning him in and making opening his eyes a thousand times more difficult.

“Wake up,” he heard a voice come from behind him.

He cracked his eyes open, just enough to see the back of a white leather couch. The initial brightness made him squeeze them shut again, moving around a bit to show whoever was sitting by him that they could stop pelting him with balls any time now. He rubbed his eyes, hoping that maybe it was make the dull throbbing in his skull dissipate. 

As the seconds passed, he became more aware of what was happening. He was still in his jeans and shirt, somehow his shoes had been taken off, and there was a faux fur pillow supporting his head. He pulled the blanket off his shoulders and down to his waist, turning to lay on his back. 

His eyes fluttered open, expecting to a normal ceiling, maybe some cracks running across it like every other house around that area, but as his vision became clearer, he was incredibly confused. 

The ceiling was vaulted, higher than any house in the south side, with a crystal chandelier hanging above him. There were skylights letting the morning sun through, the light reflecting off the gems to create designs on the other walls. 

He sat up straight, enamored at just how large this house was; the living room alone was bigger than his apartment. Everything was white, modern, looked expensive as fuck and he didn’t know how the hell he got there or who would let him into a place like this. 

The kitchen was open, an island placed right in the middle with pure, snowy marble counter tops covering everything. He couldn’t see a fridge, but soon realized they had the fancy kind that blended into the cabinets. 

He turned his head to the right and his eyes scanned slowly, seeing the white hardwood floor covered by a fuzzy white rug, a white T.V stand with a giant flat screen sat atop it, a glass coffee table that had unused, white candles grouped together in the center, all standing at different heights with a black ribbon tied in a bow around them. 

His torso had shifted enough to where his feet had dragged to the floor, socks connected with fur, eyes now focused on Mickey who was relaxed back into one end of the sectional in nothing but black sweats and a white wife beater, “Where am I?” 

“On my couch,” he stood up and walked over to ruffle Ian’s hair, “get the fuck up. I made breakfast, it’s gettin’ cold.”

Mickey’s couch? This was Mickey’s house? Mickey’s home that was verging on mansion status? How did he afford this? Where even was this, because it sure as hell didn’t look like Chicago. He stood up and covered his forehead with an open palm, the pounding intensifying. He saw there was a mini garbage can next to the couch – thankfully, it was empty – his shoes, and a glass of water on a coaster, right next to an ibuprofen. 

He took the pill and sluggishly moved toward the kitchen, almost tripping on a ledge. He stepped up two stairs, leaving the sunken room behind and elevating himself into another.

Mickey was already sitting at the see-through dining table, two places set of the possible six, black plates contrasting against the all-white everything else. There was a pan of scrambled eggs, one of hash browns, and a plate full of bacon and sausage. Toast was kept warm under a clean dishcloth and a bottle of orange juice was out on display, a vase of pink tulips in the middle of it all. 

“Jesus, you made all this?” Ian took his seat, mouth salivating at the greasy food he knew would help this godforsaken hangover. 

The other man hummed and began scooping food onto Ian’s plate, not even bothering to ask what he wanted, “Gotta eat everything, I don’t want leftovers.” He made his plate too, filling the dish up with mounds of breakfast goodness. Ian dug in, holding back slightly to not look like a complete barbarian, while Mickey was more sophisticated, taking his time to even cut his bacon with the side of his fork, “You need anything else? Ketchup? Tabasco?” 

Ian swallowed, “Coffee?” 

“Shit, yeah,” Mickey leaped up and opened a drawer, “what flavor do you want?”

“I have a choice? Since when are there flavors of coffee?” 

“Come pick,” Mickey busied himself, putting the orange juice back into the fridge and internally slapping himself for forgetting the fucking coffee. 

Ian hesitantly left his meal and moved only a few feet away to the pulled out drawer with perfectly aligned rows of coffee pods, filling the entire space with not a single empty spot, “Oh, fuck, you have one of those fancy things?”

“These are all coffee,” Mickey came up beside him and used three fingers and his pinky to point out the top four lines, “these are tea,” the next two, “and the bottom one’s hot chocolate.” He stayed next to Ian, leaning partially on the counter to keep their arms from touching, “Come on, hurry up.”

“Give me a second,” Ian brought his eyes closer to the cups, reading each and every label, “too many options.”

After a few minutes of Mickey urging him to just make a decision and Ian choosing one, only to put it back and choose another, he settled on a cinnamon roll flavored espresso. Mickey picked his typical dark roast and brewed them both while Ian went back to eating. 

“This isn’t even coffee, man, it’s just sugar,” he set Ian’s mug on a coaster and sat down for what he hoped would be the last time. 

Ian sipped the beige liquid and could basically feel a cavity coming on, “What happened last night?” 

Mickey chewed on a bite of buttered toast, the crunching filling the otherwise quiet house, “We went to a club, you got shitfaced off two Corona Lights, belted out a Demi Lovato song, and refused to give me your address,” he saw Ian’s eyes squint as though he was trying to remember back to not even twelve hours ago, “so you weaseled your way into my house, congrats.”

“Fuck,” Ian shook his head with both hands covering his face, “I’m sorry. How are you not hungover?” 

“I’m not a lightweight,” Ian could swear he saw Mickey wink from behind his cup.

“I take these meds that fuck with my blood,” he found the salt shaker on the tables and sprinkled some on his potatoes, “turns it into whatever I drink.” Ian prepared himself for the inevitable _why do you take meds?_ question that drove every man away, but it never came. Mickey just kept eating, occasionally glancing up at Ian, but Ian could tell there was something stuck in his throat, “You wanna know why?”

Mickey replied with a simple, “No,” and a small smile, “not if you don’t want me to know.” The knot in Ian’s stomach began to dissolve until, “See, I do this thing called respecting other people’s boundaries and privacy.”

“You want me to go, I can go,” Ian’s brows shot up with a thumb pointing backwards toward the kitchen.

“I’m kidding,” he swallowed a forkful of eggs, “but you should’ve told me you can’t drink, we didn’t have to go out.” 

“I can drink, just don’t handle it very well,” Ian clarified, not knowing how to say _I didn’t care about getting drunk, I just wanted to spend time with you._

Mickey left it at that, not continuing the conversation. They finished their first round of breakfast and both went for seconds, loving the comfortable silence they had found themselves in. It was like they were in their own little world, finally, after almost two months of it being them and hundreds of other people. The random car would pass by on Mickey’s rich, suburban street, but their eating noises were basically all that were heard. 

“Oh my God, who’s that?” Ian broke the silence when a fluffy, black cat came waltzing into the room from the front entryway. It came and rubbed against his ankles, wiping its face all over his jeans. 

“What color is he?” 

“Black,” Ian scratched his head and behind his ears, receiving a string of content purrs. 

“That’s Cosmo,” Mickey leaned sideways to look under Ian’s chair. Cosmo jumped onto Ian’s lap, tailing flipping while his new best friend itched under his chin, “There’s another one named Newman, but he never comes out of my room; he hates everyone, me included.”

“Like Seinfeld?” 

Mickey nodded and smiled at just how much Cosmo liked Ian, keeping the fact that he never acted this affectionate with anyone else a secret, “Wanna get a girl and name her Benes, but I don’t know if they’d get along.” 

“That’s so cute,” Ian ran his fingertips up and down the cat’s spine, over and over again. “I think he likes me.” 

“Don’t flatter yourself, he likes everyone,” he lied. He stood up and cleared the table, throwing away whatever was remaining in the pans and on their plates. Cosmo jumped off Ian’s legs and walked to his dad, weaving his way through Mickey’s ankles while he filled the dishwasher, “You can go watch T.V. or somethin’,” he spoke over the running water.

Ian took the invitation and headed back to his temporary bed. He snapped his fingers to call Cosmo, the cat running to catch up with him, a bell around his neck jingling with each stride. When Mickey was finished with the dishes, he found the box of spare coffee pods in a lower cabinet and replaced the two missing ones in the drawer. He cleaned the crumbs off the table, wiped every surface down in the entire kitchen, and by the time he was done, it looked as if no one had ever cooked or eaten a single thing. 

“You’re just makin’ yourself at home, huh?” Mickey stepped down to the depressed room, eyes lingering on Ian’s body stretched out, legs crossed at the ankle on the coffee table, with an almost-sleeping cat on his chest, the remote placed on his lap. 

“What are we gonna do today?”

“ _We?_ ” Mickey raised his brows, “ _You’re_ gonna go home and _I’m_ gonna do my own shit.”

Ian grinned and pet down Cosmo’s back, watching as Mickey took the seat he had been in earlier, “Can I ask you something?”

Mickey hummed, struggling to keep his lips from forming a smile as he heard the cat purring, even from feet away. 

“How do you afford a place like this?” Ian pressed his face forward to kiss Cosmo’s forehead, “I mean, I know you make pretty good money at the club, but this house is huge.”

“Drag isn’t my day job, man,” Mickey barely laughed, averting his gaze to a rerun of Maury playing on the T.V., “it would be great if it was, but nah, just a hobby.”

“What do you do, then?” 

“That’s none of your business,” he knew Ian could see him smiling, trying to flirt in the blandest way possible, “and don’t give me the whole _but you know what I do_ speech, either.”

“But you know what I do,” Ian mimicked, laughing strong enough to make his chest shake Cosmo awake when he saw Mickey roll his eyes. 

“It’s stupid,” the older man shook his head and used every ounce of restraint he had to keep from looking back over at Ian, “you’ll laugh at me.”

“It’s not stupid if you can afford this kinda house,” Ian countered.

Mickey kept watching the couple on Maury scream at each other about whether or not he was the father, feeling Ian’s eyes glued to his profile. The guy knew his name, met his cats, seen his house, for fucks sake, telling him his job couldn’t be the biggest bomb he’d drop. He contemplated it for a few more moments, waiting for the show to go to a commercial, before speaking softly and continuing to stare away from Ian, “I’m an accountant.”

Only then, did he turn to gauge Ian’s reaction. His brows were raised a little, mouth in an exaggerated frown as he nodded his head, “An accountant,” he repeated, feeling the strength and knowledge of the word flow off his tongue.

“What, just say it,” Mickey slouched down into the couch some more, bringing his left ankle to rest on his right knee, “I can take it, come on.”

“No, it’s nothing, it’s just-” he was interrupted when Cosmo jumped off him and disappeared into another part of the house, still undiscovered to Ian, “you don’t really look like an accountant, that’s all.”

“I don’t look like a drag queen either, do I?” the words were heatless, more teasing than anything; how is someone supposed to look like their job? Mickey upped the ante, risking more than he would admit to himself, “I’m the senior accountant for the Bears.”

Ian scrambled to sit forward, elbows on knees, jaw slack, “The- the,” he stuttered, “the Chicago Bears?”

“No, the Berenstain Bears.”

“Stop, are you serious? You work for the Chicago Bears? The football team?” he had a hand extended out to Mickey, like it would make him stop being so sarcastic for two seconds. 

“Yes, Ian, the Chicago Bears,” he spoke meticulously, like Ian was a toddler.

“Holy shit,” was all he could manage, the two words coming out breathy and soft, “so you know all the players?” 

“Not really,” Mickey reached over to the cushion by Ian’s leg and stole the remote, over Maury and the yelling flowing through the speakers. “I work in an office. I sit behind a desk and sign off on the work other people do for me. Not too exciting, Mr. EMT.”

“How much do you make?” 

“Alright,” Mickey chuckled and turned the T.V. off, ready to have his house to himself again, “now that’s _really_ none of your business.”

“I’ll tell you how much I make?” Ian attempted his usual trick, equalizing their honesty to make Mickey feel more secure. “Fifty-two grand, salary.”

Mickey was beside himself, completely shocked at how reckless this guy was with giving his information out. They didn’t even really know each other, yet here he was, spilling all of his personal data to Mickey who now felt compelled to share his. If Ian wanted to play this game, Mickey could too, “Let’s see,” he started, sighing. “I make about…” he paused to think, “eighty with the Bears. No, it’s probably eighty-five with my Christmas bonus, actually.” 

Holding his jaw up with a lost cause, hopeless, beyond recovery. Ian tried to form a sentence, lips connecting a couple times and popping like he was imitating a fish, “Eighty-five thousand dollars?” 

“That’s just one job,” Mickey kind of enjoyed this. It was like how Ian acted at the club, absolutely in awe of his body, but now it was for his money, “You gotta add on my drag money, which I don’t pay taxes on ‘cause I’m not technically employed by the club. I just take the cash and go, like a lemonade stand or some shit.” He stood up and walked back into the kitchen, talking over his shoulder as he grabbed a water bottle from the fridge, “In a good month, I make like, I don’t know, eight grand. So eight grand a month times twelve months, do the math.”

Ian used a finger to write out the equation on his jeans, a mix of admiration and envy both intertwining in his heart and radiating down to his knotted stomach when he got the result. He could barely breathe, chest feeling tight, words constricted, “Ninety-six thous-, oh my God.”

“Alright,” Mickey acted as if it was no big deal, while Ian was bug-eyed with a dry mouth, “add those two together and there ya go. You wanted to know, remember, so don’t make shit weird.”

Mickey cracked open his Fiji water, took a sip, and set it down on a coaster. He remained next to Ian as he folded the knitted blanket and set it on the back of the couch while Ian did more math on his thigh, “You make a hundred and eighty-one thousand fucking dollars a year?” 

“Sounds about right,” he stayed standing, like he wanted Ian to get the hint and get the hell out of his house.

“That’s over three times what I make,” Ian looked up at him, lips still parted in amazement.

Mickey nodded and sucked in a deep breath, smile nearly blinding Ian, “And to think I sit on my ass all day playing Solitaire while you’re out saving lives.” He put his hands on his hips and cocked his head, “It’s the American dream.” 

“It’s bullshit, is what it is,” Ian’s head hung between his shoulders. “I should be a drag queen.”

“Don’t undermine my art like that,” he picked up his water again and started walking toward the entryway. He figured Ian would follow his lead, but the guy was still sitting on the couch, “Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

That kind of shook Ian out of a haze, turning his head around to see Mickey waiting in the hallway, then back around to collect his things. He put his shoes on and prepared himself for what he was about to see in the house, unsure of just how big it actually was. 

The hallway was overly wide with continued high ceilings, both walls covered with colorful, floral artwork; the reds, pinks, yellows, and oranges giving the space a much needed sense of vibrancy in an otherwise bleak area. There was a long, rectangular mirror going along the left side, the picture frames placed perfectly around it to look like an art gallery.

When they reached the double front door, Ian twisted to get a full view. A circular table in the middle of the foyer, a bowl in the center that held Mickey’s wallet and keys, two stair cases on went up on a curve to the second floor, same white floors with a black banister. Another chandelier was hanging above them, much higher than the one in the living room, but familiar crystals and their reflections were unending. 

A room to the left seem to be a formal dining room, an enlarged version of his kitchen table was dead center and surrounded by fancier black, cushioned chairs. There was even a goddamn china cabinet filled with expensive dishes and silverware. To the right, a relatively barren office. A desk in the corner was clutter-free, only a desktop Mac, a laptop, and a succulent sitting on top. 

“Yo, come on,” Mickey was already outside, the door wide open. Ian took the beauty that was this house in for one last time before stepping out and shutting the door behind him, Mickey locking it immediately after.

This wasn’t Chicago. It couldn’t be Chicago. 

Ian looked around, waited to hear sirens or screaming or _something_ to signal he was close to home, but there was nothing. There was only a lawnmower faintly humming in the distance, accompanied by birds chirping happily. It was as if he was Alice and this was Wonderland. Fell into a dark hole of nothingness last night and woke up here, seemingly so far away from the city. 

Mickey and everyone else on the street had front lawns, green grass and blooming bushes brightening up the world. He saw an older woman across the street tending to her garden, planting new flowers along her walkway. There was no doubt in Ian’s mind that Mickey was the youngest person in this neighborhood.

He trailed behind as Mickey typed in a code to open the garage door. It lifted slowly to reveal something that would make Ian whine and let his head fall back like he was throwing a tantrum, “You gotta be fucking kidding me.”

“What?” Mickey clicked the unlock button on his keys, car beeping twice. 

Ian walked closer to a brand new, white BMW, still with the dealership plates. There wasn’t an imperfection to be seen, it was pristine. He ran a hand over the trunk, fingers sliding smoothly over the fresh paint, “This is so beautiful, what the hell.”

“Get in, I got shit to do.” 

Following his orders, Ian got into the passenger seat, sinking into black leather. It was luxurious, expensive, sophisticated, and elegant; everything he never had access to. Mickey turned it on, backed out, and started driving toward the club, figuring Ian must live somewhere around there.

The radio was playing lowly, keeping just enough noise in the background to keep the tension from becoming too unbearably thick. Mickey let Ian enter his address into the GPS, a Siri-like voice coming through the surround sound speakers, instructing him on where to go. 

He kept how he felt hidden, driving back into an area he never thought about, or desired, to go back to. It was like experiencing a nightmare for the second time, but the nightmare was real life. He was aware he probably felt cold, distant, being so quiet and leaning his cheek on his left hand, elbow against the window. Ian stayed quiet too, just watching out at the world passing by as they went from lavish suburbia back to the south side, already aching to go back to Mickey’s.

They pulled up to his apartment complex looking extremely out of place in a parking lot full of probably-stolen cars. Ian didn’t move, didn’t even shift when Mickey turned the car off. Both were upset and detached, but for very, very different reasons.

Ian looked up at his door, baby blue and saddening. He was waiting for Mickey to make the first move, to tell him to get out, but they just sat in silence for a few minutes, neither doing anything to make it stop.

The sirens were back, cops and ambulances alike, blaring sharply into their bubble and tearing them out of whatever this was they were doing. They were oblivious to it, but they sort of comforted each other; Ian didn’t want to go into his apartment alone, Mickey didn’t want to be in this town alone.

“Well,” Ian started, rubbing his hands over his jeans, “thanks for breakfast,” Mickey nodded and stared straight ahead, craving to make eye contact, but the memories were too strong, “and for not letting me die.”

That got Mickey to smile a little bit, to relieve some of the dull numbness happening in his head, “No problem.” 

“So, I’ll see you on Friday?” 

“Yep.”

He should’ve gone for the handle, opened it and left, but he didn’t budge. It wasn’t sexual, there was no urge to make any kind of physical connection. It was all mental and emotional, just needing someone to be there for them in the same moment of loneliness. He assumed Mickey would tell him to go eventually, so why not just wait it out. Going into that place when he had just been in a palace would be the equivalent of walking into hell after sleeping in heaven for a night. 

Ian considered asking Mickey to come up, but the combination of knowing he wouldn’t mixing with the state of his shithole of an apartment, he decided against it.

Mickey considered asking Ian to spend the day with him, go to the dry cleaners to get his suits washed for the coming week, but because the thoughts of why he never went around that area anymore wouldn’t leave him alone, he decided against it. 

They stayed sitting next to one another, scarcely touching on the armrest, for nearly a half an hour. Just listening to the events outside, the unrelenting loudness that refused to fade. That same loudness soon entered the car when Ian’s phone started buzzing in his pocket for the first time all day. He read the text and sighed, skull hitting the headrest, “Fucking dipshit, I gotta go.” 

“What happened?” Mickey finally turned his head to look in Ian’s direction, except now Ian was the one staring forward. 

“Brother got arrested again,” he shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose, “gotta go bail him out.”

Mickey didn’t quite know what to say. Oh? I’m sorry? Is he okay? Are you okay? He went with nothing. 

Ian propped open the door and stepped out, leaning down so his head was still under the door frame, “Thanks again,” he didn’t want to leave, the increasing space between them was making his chest squeeze, “for everything.”

“Anytime,” Mickey put the key in the ignition and Ian closed the door. 

He waited until Ian had entered his place to finally leave the complex, an overwhelming itch to go back enveloping his entire being. His fingers were on the turn signal, ready to pull the bar down and make a U-turn at the next available light, but he didn’t let himself. He had to let Ian deal with whatever his brother did, and he had his own things to do.

He would live. He would survive. But that didn’t mean his heart hurt any less.


	8. Chapter 8

It had been two months since Ian had first laid eyes on the eighth wonder of the world. This was the ninth week he found himself standing in line to see this magnificent embodiment of everything beautiful on earth. Eight weeks after meeting Mandy, making small talk and listening to stories about her girlfriend, and other problems in her life, acting as a vault for the bottled-up issues she held inside. Two months since he discovered two new people who gave his life a little bit more purpose. 

“I met someone,” Ian absentmindedly counted the money he had stashed in his pocket, separating ten from the rest of the ones for his admission fee. 

He heard Mandy release a small gasp followed by feeling his shoulder be shoved by her own, her small frame barely moving his muscled body at all, “You did?” she spoke enthusiastically, voice higher and lighter than normal, “What’s his name?”

Ian put the wad of ones in his left pants pocket, the ten dollar bill in his right, “Can’t tell you that.” The line started moving slowly, both of them inching along with it, “He’s super private,” Mandy looked over her shoulder, face appearing unconvinced, “like, paranoid private. He’d never talk to me again if I said anything.”

“What, is he still closeted?” 

“You know,” he watched Mandy give her cash to the bouncer and get a stamp on the pale skin covering the top of her hand, “I’m actually not sure about that. That’s a good question.”

“Come on, tell me his name,” she pleaded, waiting inside to the side while Ian got his own blue stamp. They traveled further inside the club, skin instantly becoming sticky under her leather jacket, “What am I gonna do, steal him? A lesbian and a gay guy fighting over another gay guy… Pretty sure you have the upper hand with this one.” 

Ian took the lead and paved a path for her to follow behind, landing in their same weekly spot, “Starts with an M, that’s all you’re gettin’.”

“Oh my God, is it me?” she tilted her head up with an elated smile spread across her face. “You just met me, my name starts with an M, I’m gay, I’m cute…”

“See, you figured it out all on your own,” he grinned back down at her and let himself be pushed forward, a crowd of strangers trapping him between their sweaty bodies and the stage. They stood tightly and quietly against each other while everyone surrounding them chanted Anna’s name, throwing money on the stage before they even came out. 

Earlier in the week, he’d been called in for extra shifts, giving him some leeway in terms of how much cash he’d be able to toss Mickey’s way. He knew the guy didn’t need it, that he wasn’t struggling at all, but it felt necessary to show his appreciation in the one way Mickey would let him: money. He had a single hundred dollar bill hidden in his back pocket, keeping it safe and concealed until the right moment.

All except one light went dim, the single beam coming from the back of the stage, creating a silhouette of a high heeled figure making its way down the runway with swaying hips. The occasional sequin caught onto random sources of light, silver specks sparkling and reflecting in an otherwise dark area. 

Ian was deaf to everything, ears numb and unable to comprehend anything other than this glowing, shining goddess performing their heart out in front of him. After last week’s Makeup 101 lesson, he had a newfound admiration for the art form, viewing each layer of the mask like a piece to a puzzle. The highlighter he had learned about beamed off their cheekbones and into his line of vision every time it hit the light just right, catching his attention and pulling it away from the hundreds of other minor details along their body he was focused on.

The lights had come back on by now, flashing intermittently to the beat of a song Ian couldn’t hear. It was like he was the kid on The Polar Express who couldn’t hear Santa’s bells until he believed in him. Ian couldn’t believe this person was real, let alone believe this woman was really an accountant named Mickey with two cats named after Seinfeld characters, and therefore, couldn’t register a single thing. 

As they marched their way down the runway, he let his eyes take their sweet time looking Anna over. Silver jeweled heels that left their feet completely exposed save for two straps: one across their toes and one around their ankles. He could see tiny flecks of something sparkling along their legs, which made it clear they were wearing tights this week; stoned tights. His gaze continued upward, eyes meeting a skintight, sequined dress, hugging them in all the right places. The back of the dress was bordering on nonexistent, the fabric only covering their ass and disappearing the rest of the way up, starting just below the two dimples at the base of their spine. 

They were so far away from him, in both a physical and mental sense. They were so concentrated on working for that well-deserved cash from random club goers in the front of the stage, they weren't paying Ian any mind, not even looking at him like usual. That soon changed. 

Squatting down with their knees pressed tightly together, because they’re classy like that, they met Ian’s stare with one just as strong. They took the money and made a fan out of it, waving it back and forth to give themselves a little breeze in such a stuffy environment. It probably wasn’t intentional, Ian thought, they probably weren't doing that with their head tilted back, eyes closed, air being wafted onto their exposed neck with their lips still moving to the lyrics on purpose. It wasn’t for him, that’s for sure. 

They dragged the bills down their skin, starting at their chin and down over a thick, dazzling, silver-jeweled choker, wrapped securely around their throat. The cash continued down, all while they took slow steps in Ian’s direction, eyes remaining locked on his. The dress had a plunge neckline and was lose around their chest, leaving them with no safe place to stash their earnings, so they folded it all up as they knelt down in front of Mandy first, breaking the staring contest going on with Ian. 

He watched as Mandy handed them a twenty, fingers brushing as the exchange was made. Only at that moment did Ian question why she came here every week, especially considering she had a girlfriend. Did she get off on Anna like he did? Even though she knew they were a man underneath this façade? 

After the bill was added to their stack, it struck him that it was his turn now. He stuck his index finger and thumb into his back pocket and pulled out his special prize, holding it up just for his recipient. It was so close to their face, they almost went cross-eyed trying to focus on the dollar amount. When it was clear he was handing over a big fat Benjamin, a smile spread across Anna’s face, brighter than their entire costume and highlighter combined.

They grinned around the words to a song Ian wish would just get turned the fuck off already, flicked that same long, blonde wig behind their shoulder, and tapped their choker, stretching their neck out toward him with their chin tilted up. Ian brought a shaky hand up to their throat and tucked the bill under the strap, knuckles brushing against their Adam’s apple.

Before going back to the rest of the crowd to finish their set, they reached out toward Ian and carded their fingers through his hair, moving their hand around to the side of his neck, thumb placed snuggly behind his ear. He could feel the pressure building on his pulse point, like they were trying to feel his heartbeat, which was intensifying as each second passed without them releasing their grip or averting their heavy stare directed at Ian’s lips. 

The song eventually ended, they exited the stage, and Ian was left one hundred dollars poorer with a semi.

“I’m dead serious,” Mandy walked through the door being held open for her by Ian, reaching over her head from behind, “I would pay to see you two fuck.” They rested against the brick, looking on to the large group of sweaty civilians relishing in the cool almost-summer air, “She wants to fuck you. I know she wants to fuck you, I can tell.”

“Stop it,” Ian almost reached for a cigarette, but stopped himself, “just sayin’ thanks for my cash.” He kicked a rock around on the ground and picked at the skin around his thumbnail, trying to scratch the dull itch for nicotine.

“No,” she stated defiantly, “no, she doesn’t do that. Takes the money and runs, always.” A group people piled into an Uber, a few more cliques following, shrinking the crowd down some. Ian didn’t reply or entertain the conversation, just switched to chewing on his nails. “Anyway,” she continued, “I still can't shake the feeling that I know her, though,” turning away from him, she started going to town on her own extremities. They were beginning to look like a couple of tweakers waiting for their next fix.

“What do you mean?”

“Like,” she frustratingly stuffed her hands in her jacket pockets, “I don’t know. She looks so much like a guy I knew a long time ago, but I haven’t seen him in so long, I’m not sure what he’d look like now; especially covered in makeup.” She shook her head as if to clear the thought from her mind, “But it’s ridiculous, there’s no way it’s him.”

“Sounds kinda ridiculous,” he teased her, bumping their shoulders. Ian thought about how the chances of Mandy knowing Mickey were slim to none, not even likely enough to make him see the similarities in their facial features and hair color. 

As the rest of the audience left the premises, Mandy took off too, giving Ian a small wave and flipped him the bird when he reminded her to be careful. Alone again, he took his seat on the bench. Sudoku turned to Solitaire turned back to Sudoku, passing the time as he waited for someone to come get him. 

He expected it to be somewhat quick, hoped that the same huge, burly guy would yell for him and it would be nice and simple like last week, but as the minutes turned to hours, he was getting pretty irritable. By two o’clock, he was still seated, phone battery draining consistently, and still no sign of Mickey or the man who could crush him like a soda can. 

He contemplated going in the back exit, say screw you to both of them and make the move himself, but he stayed put. 

“HEY!” a voice boomed from the back of the alley, making Ian’s heart stop and body jolt. He instantly stood up and jogged over to where the sound was coming from, squeezing past that man who was holding the door open with his back. 

Ian led himself through the hallways, and knocked a few times until Mickey spoke from behind the barrier to his dressing room, “Come in.” Following his directions, Ian entered his lair and saw that everything was already cleaned up and packed away, including Mickey’s face, which was wiped spotless of any evidence indicating he was in full drag just two hours ago. 

“Hey,” the door clicked behind him, “what’s up?”

“About to leave,” Mickey picked up the sack of cash off the floor and stuffed it, uncounted, into his blue duffel bag. “How’s your brother?”

“Which one?” Ian asked by habit, not remembering how much he shared last Saturday.

Mickey slung the bag over his shoulder and moved past Ian to leave the room, “The one that got arrested? He good?”

“Oh, yeah,” Ian followed him through the corridors and out the back exit, happy that the month of June was here now, mild nights taking over the usually freezing Chicago, “he’s fine. Drinks too much sometimes, thinks he can do whatever the hell he wants.” They both took a seat on the bench and were enveloped in a comfortable silence until a stray car whizzed by, “Hasn’t figured out that’s not how the world works, yet. Twenty-seven and still acts like a child.”

“I get that,” Mickey relaxed back against the metal bars and pulled his phone out of his sweats, “dad’s a drunk, too.”

Ian nodded at the unsolicited bit of information about himself, but didn’t push for more. As much as he hated it, this is how it would have to be; take what he was given, and patiently wait for the nut to crack on its own. They stayed like that for a few minutes, bodies separated by the bag of makeup and cash, while Mickey messed around on his phone. Ian would peek over occasionally, not necessarily spying, just curious as to what he was doing. 

“Look at these assholes,” Mickey held the device out toward Ian, almost catching him in the act.

Looking closely, he recognized what was on the screen. It was a black and white live stream of Mickey’s kitchen with two cats on the counter. Cosmo was sitting by the sink licking his paw and rubbing it behind his ear, the other one, apparently Newman, was trying to pry open a cupboard with his nose, “Oh my God.”

Mickey pulled his arm back and continued watching his pets infiltrate what was supposed to a sterile area, “What is he even trying to get?” he asked rhetorically, “It’s just plates, you idiot, get off the fucking counter.” 

“He’s trying to find treats,” Ian joked and leaned closer to watch along with him. 

“Bullshit- fuck, look at Cosmo,” he pointed at the cat and rested his wrists on his knees to extend his arms and give Ian a better view, cupping the phone in his hands, “little shit’s taking after his brother.” 

Cosmo was scratching on the cupboards with Newman, both standing on their hind legs trying to claw their way through the wood. After about ten minutes of Mickey lecturing them through the screen, the cats, as if hearing their dad, jumped off the counter and disappeared from the kitchen.

“Alright,” Mickey started, “what do you wanna do?”

Before he could filter his forwardness, he blurted out, “Go to your house.”

“Why?” heatless, Mickey laughed a response. He kept his face down, opening and closing apps to make it look like he was actually doing something important, “My place’s boring.”

“No it’s not,” Ian countered, “I wanna meet Newman.”

“Why don’t we go to yours? You saw where I live,” he opened the pet-cam again and checked each angle, finding the cats messing around together in the guest bedroom, “let me see where you live.” 

“Nah, you _really_ don’t wanna see it,” Ian let his head fall back and folded his arms across his chest. “Trust me,” he spoke into the air above him, “it’s full of my shit mixed with my brother’s shit ‘cause he got evicted and had nowhere else to put everything and it’s just one big ass shitfest.”

“I don’t care.”

“You would if you saw it,” he turned his head to look at Mickey, watching the side of his face as he continued to snoop on the cats. “Going from your house to mine would be like going from heaven to hell.”

“Whatever, man,” Mickey’s voice tightened into an annoyed tone, “I don’t care.”

He did care. He thought offering up that idea would show Ian he wanted to spend more time with him, get to know him on a more personal level, but maybe Ian didn’t want that. Maybe he wanted Mickey strictly on the side, detached from the rest of his life. So, he did what he always did: put his walls up. Shut down, push him away, act like he couldn’t give less of a fuck, when in reality, he did. He just didn’t know how to express it. 

While Mickey was dealing with an internal tug-of-war, trying to decide whether or not to stay on the bench, or pull a Mickey and get up and walk the hell away from a situation that involved acknowledging any his emotions, Ian had still been studying him from the side. 

He saw Mickey’s eyebrows move without purpose, like they had a mind of their own. Saw the crease between his brows deepen in thought, his eyes squint then open and shift to look down the street, as if he was planning an escape. That couldn’t happen, he couldn’t wait another week with only a couple minutes to hold him over. He had to make a deal. 

“Okay, how about this,” Ian began, pulling his own phone out and typing his password in, “a compromise. We go to my place, you can come in and clean everything for me,” he smiled down toward his screen, feeling Mickey’s gaze on the column of his throat, “I grab a change of clothes and we go to yours.” 

Mickey stayed quiet for a few beats, secretly loving the plan, “What, you’re inviting yourself to a sleepover now? Gonna become a weekly thing?” 

“That’s the goal,” he locked his phone and stuffed it away again, “car’ll be here in ten.”

Ian took Mickey not saying no as an agreement and laid the topic to rest. They stayed seated together and watched more of the cats curled up together, now on the couch, sleeping soundly. Mickey told him stories of how Newman’s an actual demon, and how he’s convinced the cat was only acting cute and innocent because he somehow knows the cameras are on. 

Eventually, the car showed up and they climbed into the backseat, now nearly three o’clock. The driver had Ian’s address entered into his phone’s GPS and started driving as soon as Mickey closed the door. 

“Wait, why don’t you drive yourself here?” Ian questioned quietly from the other side of the car, not wanting to irritate the driver at such an early hour.

He shrugged and turned away from the window to look at Ian, “No reason.”

“Don’t want that fancy car of yours to get stolen, huh?” he poked Mickey’s thigh a couple times, playfully.

Bashfully, Mickey chuckled and hung his head with his eyes shut for a brief moment, feeling tired and wide awake all at once, “Hey, you brought up the stereotype, not me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ian smiled back, his hand lingering on the middle seat between then, dangerously close to Mickey’s leg and his hand that was resting atop it, “I don’t blame you. That thing would be picked apart so fast around here, you have no idea.” 

“I grew up here,” he informed, staring out the window at the sidewalk rushing past, street littered with abandoned shopping carts and flickering lamp posts, “I’m not dumb enough to leave my brand new car grand sitting on the side of the road. Like giving a baby a credit card and access to a candy store,” he kept his voice down to a mumble, careful not to let the driver get any clue as to just how much money these bozos sitting in his car at three a.m. had; over two grand in cash was currently nestled between Mickey’s feet on the floor.

“You’re south side?” 

Mickey nodded slowly, but his eyes remained locked on the world outside. They didn’t say anything for the rest of the ride; Ian didn’t want to push, and Mickey didn’t want to share. Both could feel their fingers twitch randomly, like they were magnets trying to attach to one another, but Ian pulled his hand away first, not even allowing himself time to contemplate the idea of giving into his desires. 

After pulling up the apartment complex, they clambered out of the car and began leading the way up two flights of stairs to his place. “I’m gonna tell you one more time,” Ian turned around with his back against the door, key in the lock, “it’s a mess.” 

“And I’m gonna tell you one more time, I don’t care,” Mickey wedged himself between the doorframe and the side of the younger man’s body, twisted the key, and pushed his way into Ian’s life; again. Any free space that was once there was replaced with cardboard boxes, stacked up with against the wall. Empty plastic bottles of cheap vodka were strewn across the coffee table, a small mountain of dishes were piled up in the sink, some even escaping onto the counter, clothes thrown places clothes should never be thrown, “Not that bad,” he lied. Badly.

“Stop lying,” Ian said bluntly, turning a lamp on and picking up a trail of dirty shirts and socks along the floor. “I know I’m not the cleanest person, but my brother’s a fucking pig. Just-” he wrapped his arms around the ball of clothes, looking around the room anxiously, “give me a second.”

There was nowhere for either of them to go in such a small, cramped studio apartment. Mickey stayed by the door, palm clenching and releasing around the strap of his duffel bag, trying his best to stay levelheaded in such a mess. Homes like this brought back too many memories, too many thoughts of drunken yelling, piss-stained carpet, and slaps to the face. Spotlessness helped keep his mind free of his father, filthiness only made it all come flooding back. 

Ian gathered every piece of his brother’s life and left it in a heap in the corner. He went opened the top drawer of his dresser that doubled as a T.V stand, and pulled out a pair of sweats and a t-shirt. He opened the one other door in the place and had to barely lean in to grab his toothbrush and a tiny orange bottle with a white cap before stuffing it all in a backpack, “Alright, let’s get the hell outta here.”

It took Mickey a second to break the trance he was in, kind of stumbling backwards when he returned to reality, “Yeah.”

“Are you okay?” Ian asked, opening the door and gently escorted Mickey out with a hand on his shoulder blade.

Mickey nodded tentatively and spoke softly, “Yeah.” He picked up the pace and started down the stairs. 

Ian locked the door and took the spare key from under the welcome mat, giving Lip no possible way to get in. He took his time catching up with Mickey, feeling like the guy needed some space for whatever reason; let him have some room to breathe. The man was standing with both converse-clad feet balancing on a parking block, pretending to use it as a balance beam, hands still clutched around the strap of his bag, “I’ll drive,” he began walking toward his car, “unless you wanna bring me back to this shithole tomorrow?”

“No, that’s fine,” his chin was to his chest, eyebrows furrowed, focusing on not putting too much weight on one side and tipping himself over. When he heard the beeps of Ian’s car signaling it was unlocked, he hopped off and went to the passenger side of an older car, gold with a tan interior, borderline grandma status, but it was cleaner than his house, thankfully for Mickey. The seats were worn from years of abuse, slightly ripping along the sides, the painted leather fading and flaking off. A pineapple mango air freshener hung from the rearview mirror, making the whole place smell tropical and refreshing, although he couldn’t help but feel like it was only there to mask the stench of cigarettes. 

“Excuse the water bottles,” he plucked two from the cup holders, two from the floor on Mickey’s side, and flung them behind him, not caring where they landed in the backseat, “forget to throw ‘em away after I get off work.” 

Mickey leaned in and took his seat, feeling much more comfortable there than inside of that apartment. 

Ian had no clue where he was when they got off the freeway and it turned into residential streets, so Mickey fed him directions, voice ever so soft in the quiet vehicle. He told him what turns to take and what yellow lights to run until they reached the upside down; the alternate world of fancy homes and green grass Ian never knew existed.

They pulled into the driveway and Mickey got out as noiselessly as possible, not wanting to wake the neighbors. The concept of a peaceful street was so foreign to Ian, he slammed his door shut out of habit and a dog in the distance began barking, almost to say _Hey, tourist. Go back to where you came from_.

“Hi, baby,” Mickey whispered as he shucked the bag off his shoulder and knelt down to Cosmo’s level, scratching under his chin as the cat meowed out of pure happiness to have his dad home. Ian closed the door and felt along the wall for a light switch, finding the one to trigger the chandelier in the foyer. “You were being a little shit, huh?” Mickey’s tone was raised, almost like he was talking to an infant, “Yeah, you were.”

Ian took a moment to admire this house again, and to revisit just how outrageously jealous he was of Mickey. To go from his apartment to such a huge, clean _home_ made envy bubble up to his throat, like that feeling you get before you cry; a lump that you can’t seem to swallow. He very well could’ve cried, and probably would’ve if the homeowner wasn’t petting his cat not five feet away.

Mickey stood up and turned the chandelier light off, pulled his phone out and started the flashlight, leading Ian, and Cosmo, down the gallery hallway to the living room. Ian felt the animal rub against his leg, asking to be loved in the only way he knew how, “Hey,” he bent over and picked the fur ball up, the vibration of purrs radiating into his chest.

“Alright,” he found the remote on the coffee table and switched the T.V on, “I’m fuckin’ tired. Make yourself at home or whatever, just don’t burn the place down.” He came up to Ian and stroked Cosmo’s hair back along his head, “You gonna stay with Ian tonight? Give my feet some more room?”

He was so close, Ian could see fuck all in this dark room, but Mickey was _close_. 

Mickey felt Ian staring at him, could see him out of the corner of his eye thanks to the brightness of the T.V shining right onto Ian’s face, but didn’t allow his gaze to steer away from Cosmo. 

“He’s my best friend,” he stated, breaking the tension after nearly a minute of unadulterated gawking at Mickey. Even without light, he could make out a tongue poking out of full lips to wet them, then those same lips turning into a grin.

“Sure,” he said, sarcastically. “Make him uncomfortable,” speaking to Cosmo, he still felt Ian’s eyes burning into the skin of his cheek, “do your worst.” 

“Don’t listen to him,” both now looking at the cat, the cat looking back and forth between whoever was speaking, “he’s just jealous.”

“I got the demon upstairs who’s the least affectionate animal out there and won't come near me at night,” Mickey stepped back, “you got this one who’ll lay on you until the sun comes up and he wants food. No matter how much you move, no matter how many times you kick him off the couch, he’ll come back for more.” He yawned and covered his mouth with a fist, slowly making his way down the hallway, “Have fun,” he added over his shoulder. 

“Goodnight,” Ian let out to only Mickey’s back as he walked away from him.

As he stepped up onto the staircase, he sent a “‘Night,” back, unsure if Ian even heard him or not. 

He washed his face properly, got all the residual makeup out of his pores, and patted his face dry with a towel. He brushed his teeth and took one last nighttime piss before climbing into his California king bed, settling himself right smackdab in the middle. 

Newman was asleep on a corner at the foot, completely unfazed by his dad’s presence. 

It was silent. He laid there with the covers brought up to his neck, arms parallel to his sides, and everything was still. Newman’s nose wheezing on every other breath was the only thing he could hear; not even his own breathing. 

His eyes were burning from exhaustion, heavy lids begging to shut, but something was keeping him up. After years of living alone, it was an odd feeling having someone else in his home. Even though Ian was there last week as well, he was nothing short of incoherent and basically dead in terms of how active his brain and body were. But to have an awake, lucid person sitting on his couch watching T.V while he was upstairs by himself felt… unnatural. 

He remained sunken into the mattress for what felt like hours, waiting for sleep to take over him like it did every night, but found no luck. It didn’t take long to realize what exactly was preventing him from getting his beauty rest: he wasn’t done spending time with Ian. 

Which sounded so stupid in his head, so extremely dumb, he physically shook his head from side to side on the pillow to erase the thought from his mind. The whole idea was unrealistic, illogical, irrational, and impractical, just to name a few. There was no way in hell he was giving into himself or acting on his unreasonable wants. He forced his eyes shut and began talking himself out of it.

Mickey didn’t do a very good job of keeping Mickey under those sheets.

He released a deep sigh, internally told himself he was a fucking idiot, and swung the thick comforter off his body. His sweats had been left pooled at the side of his bed, but were now tied around his waist again. He wasn’t thinking clearly, wasn’t even aware that he left his room without a shirt on. 

As he stepped outside his door, he could hear the T.V playing faintly in the living room, but nothing else was making a peep. He made his way down the hallway, bare feet clicking against the cold hardwood, until he reached the two staircases. 

Two steps down and he was already regretting this decision. He was yelling at himself to turn the hell around and just go to sleep. _Suck it up, bitch, you’ll see him in a couple hours._ But before he could come up with a solution to the back-and-forth arguing going on in his head, Ian turned the corner and was caught like a deer in headlights, “Oh.” 

It took him a few seconds to register what was going on, the fact that Ian was about to come upstairs in the middle of the night. For what? He stayed on the same stair, not moving an inch, feet glued to the floor, “What are you doing?” 

“Um,” he started, looking around him like he was trying to come up with an excuse on the spot, “I was, uh,” stumbling, he came up with the only reason he could think of to explain why he’d be roaming around a strangers house at nearly four o’clock in the morning, “I was looking for the bathroom.”

Pathetic.

“It’s down there,” Mickey finally took a couple more steps down to Ian’s level, still drastically higher than him.

Ian squinted his eyes, trying to get them to adjust and focused on Mickey in such a dark area, “Oh.” He looked behind himself, toward the front door, considering making a break for it. Unbeknownst to Mickey, Ian had just been having those came conflicting thoughts about whether or not to make a move, to say fuck it and go hang out some more. That’s why he chose to stay. “What are you doing?”

The heat on him, in his own home, seemed pretty unfair. Why did it matter what he was doing? It was his house for God’s sake, but he really wasn’t in the mood to argue or defer the question, so he did what any other nervous guy with a crush would do. He lied, “I was gonna get some water.”

Finally, he stepped the rest of the way down, getting to ground level and walking past Ian down the artwork-covered hallway. Ian followed like a lost puppy. Maybe an in love puppy. 

“Bathroom’s right there, dummy,” he pointed to his left without breaking stride. Pictures were places methodically around the doorframe, a white entryway staring Ian right in the face.

“You’re such a fucking idiot,” he murmured to himself, wanting to curl up in a ball and melt into the floor for exposing his lie without even trying. He locked himself in the way-too-fancy-to-be-a-bathroom bathroom, and took a minute to give himself a pep talk, tell himself to stay calm and just act normal. He flushed the toilet to milk the lie, even though it was hopeless. 

“You want one?” Mickey said with his head hidden inside the fridge as he heard Ian walk back into the main living area.

“Sure,” Ian plopped back down on the couch, Cosmo immediately climbing onto his lap. He watched as Mickey came back over and handed Ian a bottle of water, taking his own seat at the opposite end of the sofa. Ian used the light from the T.V to read the label, “Fiji?” 

“What?” he cracked his open and took a sip.

“Nothing,” Ian twisted the cap off, “I’ve just never had fancy ass water before.”

“It’s water,” Mickey reached to the coffee table and stole the remote, muting the infomercial completely and flipping through the guide, “you want tap water? I’ll get you tap water, you can drink whatever the fuck’s trickling down from Flint.”

“No, no,” he barely laughed, smiling like a kid, though, “it’s fine.”

“You care if I stay down here for a couple minutes?” Mickey wasn’t sure why he asked because, again, it was his house, but he didn’t want to overstep Ian’s boundaries, regardless of where they were. For all he knew, Ian really was just looking for the bathroom.

Ian nodded instantly and hastily, “Yeah, please.” He looked at Mickey while Mickey looked at the screen, absentmindedly clicking buttons to change the page of the guide, abdomen bare and colored blue from the T.V, water bottle placed snugly between his thighs. There were so many tiny details about the man that entranced Ian, so many things that made him feel like he truly could stare at him forever, “Fuckin’ quiet down here, I’m not used to it.” 

Mickey chose a rerun of Rocko’s Modern Life to unveil some nostalgia buried deep within both of them, but left it muted, “I was the same way when I moved out here,” he relaxed into the couch and crossed his arms over his chest, “couldn’t sleep without something playing in the background.” 

It was subtle bits of information, barely-there hints of who he was, that kept Ian interested. Piece by piece, he was uncovering more about this guy, and now it was happening naturally without any pressure or convincing, leading Ian to believe they were getting somewhere. He wasn’t sure how long it would take or if he would ever uncover the whole truth behind Mickey with no last name, but he would wait as long as that took, “Can I ask you something?” It slipped from his mouth without a second thought, but as soon as it was out, he wanted to reel it back in. 

“Hmm,” Mickey hummed, chuckling lightly at the dumb wallaby on the screen, remembering some of the only good parts of his childhood. 

“Why do you, like,” he messed with the bottle, unscrewing and screwing the lid over and over again, “I don’t know, like,” he wasn’t even sure Mickey was listening, yet still he was struggling to speak like a schoolgirl, “why do you flirt with me and touch me and shit when you’re on stage,” his eyes were aimed downward, not wanting to even know if Mickey was watching him or not, “but then don’t do anything when we’re like this?” 

Mickey took his gaze off the screen and gave it to Ian instead, watching him fidget with the label on his bottle, head hanging like he was ashamed for even asking. There were three options: lie, again, and say he didn’t like him; confess his growing interest and attraction; give some vague explanation and leave him with more questions than answers. Number three seemed the safest, “‘Cause Anna and Mickey are two different people.”

Ian yawned, unimpressed by that answer, “Not really.”

“Anna is a confident,” he paused, “sexy, woman who knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to take it.” He had started watching the T.V again, afraid that he’d break this I’m Not Anna charade if he took one glance at Ian, “And Mickey is,” a pregnant pause began, giving him time to come up with a description of himself, but falling short, “not.”

“So, what,” Ian, still with Cosmo sleeping on his lap, sunk deeper into the couch and yawned again, “Anna wants me?” 

“I don’t know,” he scooted himself forward and rested his elbows on his knees, “you gotta take that up with her.”

He could tell what the underlying message was, but he didn’t respond, didn’t push. Nodding, he watched as Mickey stood up and tossed the remote on the cushion next to him, close enough for him to reach, but far enough away so the impact of plastic on leather didn’t startle the cat, “You leaving?” 

“Yeah, can’t keep my eyes open,” Mickey sluggishly walked around the table and to the hallway, “I’ll be up to feed the cats, don’t worry about it when they start meowing and shit.”

“Okay,” Ian replied, turning his head as far as he could to see Mickey behind him, Cosmo still trapping him under his furry body, “‘Night. Again.”

“‘Night.”

Mickey walked back upstairs, each step feeling like his legs were carrying blocks of concrete. It was a combination of him being tired, his feet hurting from those godforsaken heels, and more prominently, he didn’t want to be in bed alone. 

As he got back under the covers and felt a bit better after spending some more time with Ian, he still felt shitty for lying. It should be so simple to say _I flirt with you because I like you_ , but the words wouldn’t come out even if he tried. It was too soon.

Newman must’ve felt his blueness, got some kind of cat signal that he was lonely and needed company, because the cat stood up from the spot he had been in all night, stretched his back, and walked up Mickey’s calf, thigh, stomach, and landed right in the middle of his chest. The loving act of kindness, even from a cat, made him feel secure and not so alone in such a big bed in an even bigger house. 

Ian gently moved Cosmo off of his thighs, and laid down along the couch, using the same chunky knit blanket to cover himself up with the fuzzy pillow supporting his head. Once he stopped shifting and adjusting just to readjust, working to get himself comfortable, Cosmo walked up his leg and found himself a nice, comfy place on Ian’s hip.

He, too, felt a little less alone.


	9. Chapter 9

When Mickey woke up only two hours later to feed the cats, the T.V was still illuminating the living room. The sound was off, but the colors were loud and harsh as he entered the area, using a hand to shield his tired, burning eyes from the bright lights attacking them.

Cosmo and Newman trailed behind him, meowing obnoxiously as if they hadn’t eaten in weeks. He turned into the kitchen so the intense glow was now aimed at his back, let his hand fall and opened a bottom cupboard to grab the two customized silver bowls with their names written on the sides, and the container of food. He scooped them each a serving and placed it down on the ground, the cats immediately devouring it like mosquitos to blood. 

He leaned back against the counter with his eyes shut, seeing the changing colors on the screen through his lids, letting his eyes slowly adjust to the vibrancy. He eventually cracked them the slightest bit, squinting and blinking repeatedly to get his pupils to shrink back down to their normal size. As the sensitivity began to fade away, he focused on a long, thin body on his couch, and a blanket on the floor. 

The cats continued to chow down, their collars clinking noisily against the metal bowl. Mickey pushed off the counter and took the two steps down into the living room, lifting the blanket up and spreading it out over a fast asleep Ian. He brought it up and draped it over his shoulder to reach his chin, the other end only reaching the middle of his shins. Ian’s face was toward the couch, darkness hiding his features from Mickey’s curious gaze, although he was sure he saw the corner of the redhead’s mouth twitch barely as he felt the blanket envelope him. 

He kept the T.V on so he wouldn’t trip and fall on his way back to bed, left the cats to finish their breakfast, and headed back upstairs. 

A few more hours later after the sun had risen, Mickey took his time getting ready, spending a little extra time scrubbing whatever makeup was leftover off in the shower with some grapefruit scented facewash. He chose more outfit options than usual, spreading them out across his bed to decide on the right one, doing anything to give Ian time to wake up and do whatever he needed to do in privacy. 

He settled on black skinny jeans, a fitted grey shirt with a pocket snug over his pec, and his white converse, nothing too fancy, but still well put together. Newman watched as his dad hung everything back up and returned the clothes to his closet, placing the jeans with the jean section, colored button ups with the designated colored button ups. He headed back downstairs with some pep in his step, refreshed and ready to start his day and get shit done; potentially with someone else. 

“Hey,” he said before Ian even entered his line of vision, but he could see the T.V was still on, still on the same channel, too. First, he put away the cat dishes from the night before, then he went straight for the drawer of coffee, not even bothering to look behind him, popping a cup of his usual black in the machine and grabbed a mug to catch the liquid, “You want some?” 

Ian didn’t respond, the room still filled with silence after Mickey’s question. 

“Aye,” he moved into the living room, sneakers unintentionally squeaking against the tile, and finally turned the T.V off, giving it a break after hours of use. “Get up, I’ll make breakfast,” Mickey spoke happily, giving Ian’s shoulder a few pushes, “come on.” The blanket was immediately pulled up further to cover his face entirely, knees curled up into the fetal position. 

Mickey tried to pull the obstructing sheet away, but it was yanked out of his grasp. He heard Ian mumble something from under the wool, something inaudible, so he just dismissed it and went back to the kitchen to make himself a bowl of cereal. 

He never ate on the couch, or anywhere other than the kitchen table for that matter, but he made an exception that day. Spoonful of Cheerios after spoonful of Cheerios, he sat with his ankles locked on the little table, careful not to knock over his cup of coffee. He sipped the remaining milk from his bowl and rested it on his lap, staring at the lifeless body on the opposite side of his couch, “It’s almost eleven.”

It was a statement rather than a question of if he was concerned about how late he slept in. Another bleak grumble came from somewhere Mickey couldn’t see, louder this time, “Leave me alone.”

“Leave you alone?” Mickey scoffed, barely smiling from successfully getting a response, “You’re on _my_ couch in _my_ house, what do you mean, ‘Leave me alone’?” 

Ian turned over more so his face was basically pushed nose-first into the back of the couch, preventing any type of communication on his end. 

“I got shit to do today, man,” he stood and headed into the kitchen once again, the spoon clinking against porcelain was amplified in such a quiet space. “I was gonna ask if you wanted to go with me, maybe hang out in daylight for a change, but if you’re not feeling good, it’s fine,” he rinsed the bowl and put it in the dishwasher, “still gotta go home, though.” 

He went back to the blanket-covered lump and tried to pull it away over and over again to no avail, “Are you sick or somethin’? You got a stomachache? Headache?” Tentatively, he brushed the hair off Ian’s forehead and placed his palm down to feel for a temperature, “You don’t feel warm, the fuck’s goin’ on?” 

“Go away.”

Mickey pulled the blanket off Ian completely, leaving his fully clothed body exposed to the cooler air outside the confines of the cocoon he had made for himself. He looked down at how the only moving part of him was his ribs, expanding and collapsing with each breath. It didn’t look like he was in pain, he wasn’t sweating like he would if it was the flu. He was just lying there, unmoving, unresponsive, save for the demands to be left alone.

“Whatever,” he threw the knitted yarn over him messily, “I’ll be back in a couple hours.” Realizing his wallet and keys were still upstairs, he ran to go get them, climbing two steps with each step, internally hoping the threat of leaving would wake Ian up. He was naïve. 

Ian was in the same spot when he returned, having not moved an inch, “Um,” he slid his wallet in his back pocket, keys jingling in his other hand, “I guess I’ll see you next week if you’re gone when I get home?” Ian’s only reply was bringing he crumpled blanket up and over his face again. 

Mickey just shook his head and ignored the deep, heavy, hollow feeling in his chest, like a black hole has just sucked his heart into its destructive tunnel. He got one foot out the door and immediately turned back around, sighing and dragging his feet, “Your car’s in the way,” he spoke from the entryway, walked through the hallway and stopped once he reached the living room. “You’re not gonna move it, are you?” 

Taking his silence as a no, he stole Ian’s keys off the coffee table and moved the damn car himself, parking it alongside the curb. He tossed the keys on the glass passive aggressively, and slammed the front door as he left for the second time, all without saying a word. 

The day before, he planned ahead. He had all five of his work suits folded in the trunk, ready for the cleaners. He made a grocery list and put it in one of the cup holders. He played hard to get, but he had known Ian would find his way here again and he wanted to be ready for that; be prepared to leave without hesitation or the need to waste any time. 

So, he lazily did his usual Saturday errands. The woman who owned the dry cleaner shop commented on how somber he was coming off, how the usual witty jokester had been reduced down to someone who only said ‘hi’ and ‘bye’, not making any conversation. He picked up cat food from a fancy pet supplies store, shopped for his weekly dinner plan, and stocked up on bottles of Fiji and hair gel. 

The sun was just starting to set when he turned the corner to his quiet suburban street, his headlights shining brightly through the pinkish orange sky and onto the back bumper of Ian’s car. He didn’t even bother unloading everything, just parked in the garage and went inside, walking through the dimly lit house to turn the kitchen lights on. Ian was still on the couch, although he had flipped onto his right side over the course of five, almost six, hours. 

“Alright, what the fuck is wrong with you?” he stepped down into the living room and knelt down next to Ian, face to face. “Do I need to call an ambulance or something? Did your,” he let out a breath when Ian opened his eyes, “appendix burst? I don’t know, just tell me. I got aspirin? What do you need?” 

“Get my phone,” emotionless, the words flowed out. 

“Your phone, okay,” Mickey rose up and looked around, checking the coffee table, all over the kitchen, under pillows and between couch cushions, “I think it’s in your pants, you never changed outta your jeans.” 

Ian peeled back the blanket, giving him a silent invitation to get it himself.

Mickey patted over the visible pocket, not a single sexual thought entering his brain, “It’s on the other side, lay on your back.” Ian slowly let himself fall flat against what could now be considered his bed and gave Mickey access to the other pocket, the latter sliding it out with gentle hands, “What’s your password?” 

The screen was filled with texts and Snapchat notifications, but he willed himself not to snoop. That wasn’t important.

“0-4-0-6.”

Had Mickey been more focused on the small details, he would’ve realized that was the date of the first Anna show Ian attended. 

He punched in the numbers and was granted access, his chest sinking when he saw the background wallpaper; a picture of Anna on stage, just last night, directly under a spotlight with the crowd holding up cash for them to take. Mickey’s previously cold, shriveled heart was beginning to grow warm again.

“Okay, now what?” he brought himself out of a daze and opened the contacts app, instantly met with the most generic list of names, not one standing out as someone he could be especially close to. 

“Call Fiona.”

“Fiona,” Mickey absentmindedly said under his breath as he stood up and departed back down the hallway and out the front door, taking a seat on a porch step before pressing call. 

There were a few more rings than normal, but a woman, seemingly irritated, eventually picked up, “What do you want, Ian?” 

“Hi, uh, my name’s Mickey, I’m actually a friend of Ian’s,” he rubbed his thumb and index finger into the skin of his forehead, trying his hardest to not sound panicked. Which he was. “He stayed over at my house last night and, um, he won’t get up? I mean, he’s awake, he’s talking, but he just… won’t _get up_ , get up,” there was a long exhalation on the other end. “And I asked him if he was sick or if he had a stomachache or if he needed a doctor or something, but, uh, he just said to call you, so, you know,” he pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to keep his composure, “I was just wondering if you could tell me what to do? Or if you’d wanna come help or something?” 

“Fuck,” the woman groaned, sounding impossibly annoyed, “what’s the address?” He could hear papers being shuffled around as he told her, enunciating each number and word so she wouldn’t mess it up, “Since when does _Ian_ know anyone that lives on the north side of north side?”

It sounded very condescending, like she couldn’t believe Ian had any friends at all, “It’s a long story, actually it’s not that long, we met at a club. Anyway, can you-”

She interrupted, “I’ll be there in a couple hours.”

“A couple hours?” his voice went higher, as did his eyebrows, “Can you just tell me what’s wrong with him or-” and the line cut off. 

He held the phone out and stared at the screen for a moment, dumbfounded and unsure of who exactly that was, why she seemed so disinterested in Ian’s state, and why _she_ of all people was the one Ian felt safest contacting. He set the device on the concrete next to his thigh and let his face fall into his palms, taking some time to breathe and filter through the menagerie of thoughts racing through his brain. 

“Okay, relax,” he muttered to himself, grabbed the phone, stood up, and went back inside. 

He didn’t know whether he was supposed to be angry, calm or neutral. It wasn’t clear which reaction would resonate better with Ian and help him explain what was going on, but angry wasn’t what he wanted to be, he was too anxious to be calm and too worried to be neutral. All he wanted was an answer.

“Here,” he slipped Ian’s phone back into the pocket it came from and turned the T.V on, “she’ll be here in a little bit.” It was nearing dinner time, but Mickey’s knotted stomach gave no indication of hunger, the cats, however, would never miss a meal. 

Cosmo and Newman came prancing into the room meowing, ready for their nightly feast to be served. Mickey went through the routine again and set their bowls on the floor once again, the sounds of them eating were masked by Spongebob’s laugh erupting from the television. 

Mickey sat back down on the couch and turned the loveable yet annoying sponge down, resting his elbows on his knees and staring at Ian, even though the latter had his face turned in the opposite direction.

“Did I do something?” he asked, soft and apprehensively, “Or did I say something?” Ian didn’t reply, and it was almost like he was speaking to a brick wall. Whether or not he was awake didn’t even matter, Mickey just needed to get these guilty thoughts out of his head, “Why are you mad at me, man, what did I do?” he could feel his throat tightening, just like it does before you cry. 

“It’s not your fault,” Ian said, words so hushed Mickey wasn’t sure he actually heard them, “I promise.” 

He felt his muscles loosen, a wave of relief rush over him, and he relaxed back into the couch. A breath was let out of his lungs, a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding inside. That sense of comfort in knowing he wasn’t the cause of this didn’t last long, when he heard Ian sniffle and turn over onto his left side, “Are you crying?”

Ian hid his face under the blanket, shut his eyes, and hoped Mickey would lay the topic to rest.

Without a word, he could tell what Ian was thinking. So, he didn’t push. 

Cosmo had found himself a spot on Mickey’s lap, Newman had disappeared back upstairs, presumably going back to his designated area on his dad’s bed. He sat watching T.V and petting the cat until his purrs faded out and he drifted to sleep. Ian’s phone would occasionally chime or vibrate, but not once did it get pulled from the pocket to be checked. 

Three episodes of Chopped later, the doorbell rang. Cosmo perked up, startled, and jumped off Mickey’s lap to hide without any assistance. He quickly made his way to the door, opened it, and was instantly pushed to the side as a woman and a younger girl entered his home, “Where is he?” 

“In the living room, um,” he shut the door and followed them through the hallway, “wait, what are you doing?” 

The girls had sat Ian upright and pulled his legs around so his feet were planted on the floor, apparently having done this charade before. The young redhead put one of his arms around her shoulders, the older brunette doing the same, and they lifted him up to stand, “Move,” the latter ordered Mickey.

“Where are you taking him?” he stepped aside, “I thought you could just help me get him up, where are you going?” 

Mickey picked up Ian’s shoes and backpack, following them as they dragged his deadweight down to the front door, wordlessly, not giving him any answers at all. 

Ian had started helping, using his feet to carry some of himself down the stairs and pathway to a car parked in the driveway. The redhead opened the backseat door and shifted to get Ian in a position for him to climb in, and without thinking, Mickey blurted out, “Watch his hea-,” but he stopped himself before he could finish. The brunette who he assumed was Fiona was about to shut the door as Mickey grabbed it and held it open, just wanting to say goodbye. He extended his arm into the car and set Ian’s belongings next to him on the other seat, fingers just grazing his thigh as he pulled it back out, “Gonna see you on Friday, right?”

Ian, with hooded, puffy eyes, nodded his head weakly, like it was taking every ounce of energy he had just to give Mickey the slightest bit of assurance. 

“Okay,” he closed the door and swallowed the growing lump in his throat. 

Both women had taken their seats and Fiona started the car, rolling down the window to talk to Mickey through it, “How much did you pay him? I’ll find the cash and mail it back to you or something.”

“Pay him?” Mickey, genuinely confused, came closer to her and folded his arms over his chest, “I don’t know what you mean, wh- why would I pay him, what does that mean?”

“Don’t play dumb,” she scoffed. “You’re a rich guy who said you met my brother at a _club_ , called him your _friend_ , and here he is waking up in your fancy fuckin’ house. How much did you pay him?” 

“I didn’t pay him anything, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” his eyebrows were knitted together, mouth parted from hearing her pure misperception of what had actually gone on. “If you’re accusing me of participating in prostitution, you need to get the fuck off my property,” he somehow managed to sound educated and unsophisticated all at once, “and don’t take him with you. I don’t think I want him leaving with someone who makes helping her own flesh and blood sound like such a goddamn fucking inconvenience, and then insinuates that he’s a hooker and attacks me for something I didn’t even do.”

“This isn’t my first time dealing with him waking up at some random man’s house,” she narrowed her eyes, glaring at him for, well, defending himself.

“And?” his eyes peeked behind her to the back and saw Ian blankly watching him, “He’s your brother and if you see helping him as _dealing_ with him, you can leave him here, I’ll figure out what’s goin’ on on my own.” He looked back again and there was a faint smile on Ian’s lips, the corners tugging upwards, “You wanna stay here? You can stay here,” he poked his head into the open window to talk directly to the man. Ian’s head moved up and down once, twice, three times, “See? He wants to stay. Come on, get out of the car.”

He went to grab the handle, but then the car was moving backwards, “Stay the fuck away from him,” the woman seethed, patching out as she drove away with the one person who made his house feel like a home.

“Fuck,” he let out, breathlessly. He ran his fingers through his hair and brought his palms over his face, pressing fingertips into his eyes to stop the burning. His arms gave out and they fell to his sides, immediately focusing on Ian’s car still sitting by the curb, “Shit.”

At least he knew Ian would be forced to come back at some point.

The rest of his night was filled with unloading his groceries in an attempt to keep his mind occupied, and when that didn’t work, he resorted to watching mind-numbing television for hours on end until he physically could not keep his lids from flickering shut or his head from tipping forward. 

Sunday came, he picked up his suits from the cleaners, hung out with the cats, and forced himself to not stare at the keys still sitting on his coffee table. 

He lived for Friday. He worked for Friday. He ate for Friday. He slept for Friday. Everything he did during the week was getting him another second, minute, hour, day closer to making sure Ian was okay; he needed to know if he was even fucking alive. 

His days were spent sitting in his office thinking of ways to pass the time, then sitting on his couch thinking of ways to pass the time. The cats could sense his uneasiness, giving him more love than usual, Newman even coming downstairs to sleep instead of on Mickey’s bed. 

When he stepped on stage and his focus was aimed directly at the end of the stage, people who were probably regulars but he had never seen before were lined up, staring right back up at him, making his heart feel like it dropped down to his stomach. Throughout the number, he searched over the crowd so see the odd man out, tall with red hair that would stand out anywhere, but he was nowhere to be seen. He couldn’t even find Ian’s little sidekick, the girl he secretly knew, her typical black attire had her buried and invisible in a sea of shirtless, gyrating bodies. 

He collected his tips, concentrated on not tripping over the cash plastered to the runway on his extra-high high heels and exited, wanting nothing more than to be out of that godforsaken corset and to scrub the makeup from his pores until his skin was raw.

Another week passed with no news, no sign of Ian, nothing. Two of his neighbors had caught him coming home from work and asked about the abandoned car by his mailbox, to which he assured it would be gone soon, a promise he couldn’t keep. But what was he supposed to say? Yeah, sorry about this thing disturbing the pristine appearance of our neighborhood. I don’t have an exact date as to when it’ll be moved, might be here forever, guess all you retired old folks will have to deal with it!

The following Monday, he had been cooped up inside since returning from work, watching Cutthroat Kitchen reruns, when it dawned on him: Ian’s address is on his car registration. He borderline ran outside, barely taking the time to shut the front door completely so the cats wouldn’t escape. 

Passenger door was unlocked, glovebox was pried open, and the envelope with all the important information was strewn across the driver’s seat. He found the piece of watermarked DMV paperwork, squinted his eyes and brought it closer to his face to make sure he was reading it correctly, “Caleb Harris?” 

He relaxed back into the seat with his fingers still clutching the paper and tried to connect the dots. Boyfriend? Husband? Why did he appear to live – and say he lived – alone, aside from his brother? Why wouldn’t he have Mickey call him to help? “Of course,” he laughed to himself while folding everything up, filling the envelope and sliding it back into the hidden box in front of him, “he’s fucking cheating.” 

If there was ever a moment he felt more stupid than this one, Mickey couldn’t remember it. It made perfect sense to him in his overreacting mind. Ian and this ‘Caleb’ guy were taking a break, Ian moved into his own place, the boxes in his apartment were his, not his brother’s, and he was out clubbing to find a rebound. Mickey just happened to catch his eye and fall into his trap. 

Having the week to accept his fate was, in a way, comforting. He played over how it would all go down in his head, how when Ian would come into the dressing room on Friday he’d tell him to get lost. The house was still unbearably quiet, but he had to remind himself that that’s how it always was and always would be; he wasn’t meant for relationships of any kind, friend or otherwise. It was all too good to be true.

Friday arrived and he squeezed himself into the tightest thing he could find in his wardrobe, a dress from about three years prior, right before he started stress eating and needing corsets after being promoted at work. He needed Barry the Bodyguard’s help to zip it up, something that continued to be embarrassing as fuck, but it was absolutely _not_ the first time that’s happened.

Confidently, he waltzing down the runway, feet crossing in front of him as he strutted his way to where Ian should be, but, again, wasn’t. This was getting ridiculous.

He did see the friend, though. She was in the back, leaning against the wall, looking just as concerned as Mickey wanted to feel, but couldn’t let himself anymore.

Halfway through the show, he knelt down at the end of the stage and stared down the girl while taking cash from generous fans. Once she looked up from her phone and saw his eyes burning into her own, he waved a hand toward himself, silently telling her to come forward. 

She pointed at her own chest and said, “Me?” although it was inaudible given the current setting. 

Mickey, or Anna, nodded and waved again, still stacking the cash into a neat pile in his palm while she pushed her way through the audience and reached the barrier.

He considered speaking, figuring there would be know way for her to hear his voice and make out who he was, but stuck to mouthing the words, “Where’s your friend?” 

The way his mouth lips were forming one set of words while the speakers were blasting something completely different made for a confusing interaction. He went back to lip syncing the song when she responded, “What?”

One finger was held up to tell her to give him a minute, and he went to hype up other areas of the crowd, stealing twenties from fingertips and batting grabby hands away when men tried to feel up his tight-covered legs.

He went back to the end of the stage, but remained standing, “Your friend, the redhead? Where is he?” 

She narrowed her eyes, trying to read his lips, but just shook her head, “I can't hear you.”

_No shit, Mandy. I’m not talking._

“Your friend,” he exaggerated his mouth movements, “the red,” he tapped a fake nail on his cherry lipstick, “head,” and then his scalp, “where is he?” 

He could see the expression on her face switch, like a lightbulb went off and it all made sense, “I don’t know,” she turned her palms up, “he’s not here.” 

The feeling creeping up from his stomach into his chest wasn’t supposed to be there anymore. His heart was supposed stay deep down where it couldn’t be felt or have any effect on his life or performance. But it was there, burrowing itself back into his original home, and tightening out of pure worry and fear for someone he didn’t even know that well. 

“It doesn’t even fucking matter,” he grumbled to himself after the show ended as he rubbed his face with a makeup wipe, pressing so hard the skin was turning red. “You’re not dating him, why the fuck do you care if he has a boyfriend? Why do you care if he’s okay?” he threw the used cloth in the trash and hastily yanked another one from the pouch, eyebrows knitted in frustration, “You’re so fucking pathetic, you stupid fucking idiot, get over yourself.” 

Lipstick was smeared all across his chin, “So what if he has a boyfriend? Doesn’t involve you, you haven’t slept with him, you just hang out,” he tried to negotiate with himself in a nicer tone, “no big deal.”

It was the internal back and forth that drove him nuts, the acknowledgement of how he felt and how the two sides to this situation were tugging him in opposite directions was what made him beyond irritated, not only with himself, but with Ian too, “But you don’t need to be involved in that. You have enough of your own problems, you were just accused of paying for sex, you don’t need an angry boyfriend thinking you’re fucking his guy.” 

“But you’re not,” he talked into the mirror with his lips hanging open, peeling the false eyelashes away from the real, “so you have nothing to worry about.” Placing them back in their package, he went for the drawn on brows with another wipe, scrubbing at the glued down hair to break down the stickiness, “You can still chill with him,” he was having a full-on conversation with himself through the glass, “just don’t fuck him. Which you weren't planning to do anyway, so why are we even talking about this?”

Lying to himself seemed like the easiest option.

Suppressing his emotions wasn’t working. At all. He thought for sure Ian would’ve been there on Friday, but two weeks without seeing the guy was a cruel form of torture. There was no reason for him to feel obligated to be let into his life or be told what his problem was, but after a couple months of talking, he figured that maybe he gained even a little bit of importance. Apparently not. 

He used his work to keep him busy, bringing home extra things that he would typically leave at the office for the next day. That, combined with retail therapy, made the next six days more manageable.

As he pulled onto his street on Wednesday night, he saw someone sitting on his front porch with their knees brought up to their chest. He knew who it was and knew that he needed to get the hell out of his car as quickly as he could, which is exactly what he did. His door was opened before his seatbelt was off, but he walked out of the garage and up the pathway, stopping when he saw Ian looking back at him, “The fuck you been?”

He looked tired. It was warming up in Chicago, but he was still wearing a black hoodie and jeans, his hear a mess atop his head, strands bent and shooting out all over the place, some falling onto his forehead, “I need to talk to you.”

“Yeah,” Mickey agreed as Ian stood up, “it’s hot out here, let’s go inside.” He went back to close the garage, then opened the front door and let Ian in, “Don’t let them get out,” he used his foot to push the cats away from the opening. “There’s Newman, you never got to meet him.” 

Ian dropped to his knees to pet them both, but only Cosmo stayed to let him scratch his chin, Newman followed Mickey into the kitchen; too smart to miss out on dinner. “Hey, buddy, I missed you,” he spoke soothingly to the cat who was purring excessively, happy to have his best friend back. 

“Walk in here, he needs to eat,” Mickey called from the other room and Ian did as he was told, leading the cat down the hallway and feeling so calm to be back in this home again, seeing those pictures on the wall, the mirror, the bathroom he ‘didn’t know’ was there. Everything about it made him feel relaxed and comfortable; the smell, the décor, the man scooping cat food into bowls, all of it. “Come here, Cosmo, leave him alone,” he tried to coax the animal away from Ian by shaking the dish, and it worked. 

Ian sat at one end of the glass table, Mickey staking a seat at the other, “I really don’t wanna have this conversation,” Ian confessed while Mickey loosened the tie around his neck, took his suit jacket off and removed his cufflinks, setting them in front of him.

“Are you okay?” Mickey sat back into the chair and focused on cooling his thoughts down, unsure if this was going to be about what happened here over two weeks ago or his secret boyfriend/husband.

“Yeah,” he nodded and used his ring finger to pick at the skin on his thumb, “I just don’t wanna talk about what happened.” His eyes were on the cats eating, seemingly fighting to not look Mickey, “It’s pathetic, I don’t want you to like… I don’t know.” 

Mickey could tell he wasn’t okay. Dark circles were stained onto his skin, his cheeks were sunken in from weight loss, he looked _rough_ , “I know I said I respect people’s privacy, but when someone turns into a zombie on my couch then disappears for two weeks,” he kept his voice heatless, not wanting to intimidate or scare Ian away, “I kinda think I should be let in on what happened.” 

“I know,” he started, “um, you remember when I told you I take meds?” he finally made eye contact with Mickey, looking apologetic even though there was nothing to apologize for, “After I got drunk?” 

“Mhm,” Mickey hummed and began gnawing on the inside corner of his bottom lip. 

“Um,” he rested his elbows on the table and let his head fall into his hands, face aimed downward in shame, “the pills I take are,” letting out a sigh, he prepared himself to get up and walk out as soon as the words were spoken, “antidepressants, antipsychotics and mood stabilizers to balance my bipolar disorder,” he spoke in a dull monotone, almost robotically, like he had had this same conversation a hundred times. “And about every six months they just decide to stop working,” a laugh bubbled up in disbelief with himself. 

“Okay,” understandingly, Mickey leaned forward to physically show how interested and accepting he was, “why didn’t you tell me that?”

“Because,” Ian patted his lap and Cosmo hopped up, Newman passing by unamused, “I really,” _like you_ , “like hanging out with you, but people don’t tend to wanna be around me when they find out.” He scratched the cats head and drew some more purrs, “Guys, my family. You saw how my sister treats me, she hates me for it.” Cosmo laid down on Ian’s thighs, “It’s a burden and I didn’t wanna put that on you.” 

Mickey watched how Ian pressed on his tear duct with a knuckle, stopping any liquid from dripping out. 

“So, I just came here to tell you I’m okay,” he reluctantly placed Cosmo on the ground, the cat meowing in defiance, “and to get my car. I’ll stop bugging you, stop coming to the shows,” standing up and somehow knowing that his keys would be right where they were left, he stepped down the two stairs and picked them up, “I’ll leave you alone. I’m sorry for annoying you.” 

“No, no, what the fuck are you talking about?” Mickey stopped him right as he got to the hallway, still seated at the table, “You don’t wanna see me anymore?”

_Shut up, Mickey. Stop talking. He already has someone._

“No, I do,” Ian stuffed his keys and fists into his sweatshirt pocket, “I just know you don’t wanna deal with this again, and it’s gonna happen again, so I’m just making sure you don’t have to see it again.”

“Fuck off, you don’t know that?” he was getting defensive now, upset with himself for letting the emotional floodgates open, “I don’t know what kinda guys you’re hangin’ out with or why your sister seems like a raging bitch, no offense, but I’m not gonna judge you for somethin’ you can’t control? Who the hell am I?”

Ian sat back down, cautiously, never having had this reaction before.

“They can change how they act, you can't change what happens in your head, you know?” Cosmo jumped back up onto Ian’s lap, “I mean, you can go if you want, but I’m not gonna shut you out or whatever, not unless you ask me to.”

“No,” Ian could feel the burn behind his eyes, “I don’t want that.”

“Are you crying?” Mickey face softened, “What’s wrong, why are you crying?” 

“Nothing,” Ian shook his head and used the end of his sleeve to wipe a droplet of salty water from his cheek, “no one’s ever said that to me before.” It was so clear he was ashamed of himself, absolutely self-conscious of who he was and what he dealt with from years of ridicule from his own family members, “Thank you.”

“For what?” he asked, “Being a decent human being?” That got Ian to giggle a little and sniffle away his happy tears, “I’m glad you told me that, but I gotta talk to you about somethin’ too.”

Ian went back to petting Cosmo, “What?”

Mickey didn’t want to ruin this moment, but holding off any longer would just make things worse and more complicated, “I wanted to bring you somethin’ to help, chicken noodle soup or, I don’t know, just anything to make you feel better,” he got up, draped his jacket over the chair and went to the fridge, “maybe bring your car back, but I couldn’t remember your address.”

“Okay?”

“So I looked at your registration to get it,” he confessed and grabbed an orange from a drawer.

Ian watched as he nervously peeled the fruit, tossing each piece of skin into the trash, “Again… okay?”

“It’s registered to someone named Caleb?” Mickey broke off a paper towel to dry his hands of the sticky juice, “I don’t wanna be involved in whatever you got goin’ on with another guy, man. Your sister already thinks I’m paying you to fuck, I don’t need your boyfriend comin’ over here to beat me up.” 

“No, no, no, _no_ ,” wide-eyed, Ian violently shook his head, “that’s not what that is, I swear. He’s my ex, I haven’t talked to him in like, two years.” 

“Why do you have his car, then?” he pulled the orange apart and ate a slice, face scrunching up at the sour bitterness. 

“I was really the only one who used it,” Ian explained, the pit-in-stomach feeling had transferred from Mickey to him, “and when we broke up, I took it and never gave it back ‘cause he didn’t ask for it.” He was hoping that would get at least a chuckle out of Mickey, but the black-haired man just chewed on his fruit and leaned back against the counter, unimpressed with his story, “I didn’t change the name on it or whatever ‘cause I’d have to talk to him and I really don’t wanna do that. You can check my phone, I don’t even have his number anymore.”

_You overreacted for nothing, you fucking dumbass._

To think he spent the past week worrying about literally nothing made him feel like the stupidest idiot on the face of the earth. 

“I don’t need to check your phone, man,” Mickey took a seat again, this time on the side of the table, closer to Ian, “just know that if he does beat the shit outta me and ruins my moneymaker?” he pointed toward his face and trailed his finger down the side of his body, “Not gonna be pretty for either of you.” 

It wasn’t a threat as much as a joke, making Ian smile and hold up three fingers, “Scout’s honor.”

“Alright, well,” his rest didn’t last for long, now standing and holding his cufflinks in a fist, jacket slung over his shoulder, “I’m gonna go take this shit off, I’m fuckin’ dying.” He started walking away, but stopped before vanishing down the hallway, “You wanna meet Newman? I know he walked by, but he’s a little bitch when he’s hungry.”

“Yes, please,” Ian rose in record time.

“I’ll give you the grand tour. Kitchen, living room, bathroom, in case you forget again,” he teased and grinned over his shoulder, watching Ian playfully flip him off, “office that never gets used, formal dining room that never gets used, blah, blah, blah.”

They headed upstairs and went to the left hallway first, stopping at the door on the left, “This is the guest bedroom,” Mickey opened the door and Ian stepped in, “bed, T.V, nothin’ special. If you stay over again, you can sleep in here. Don’t gotta be on the couch anymore.” 

Ian didn’t let himself show how excited he was, just enjoyed smiling and feeling truly awake for the first time in weeks.

Mickey turned around and stood by the door on the right, “Now this,” he grabbed the handle, “is where all the magic happens.” He pushed the barrier open, turned on the light, and Ian’s jaw almost hit the floor.

Racks upon racks of sparkly dresses, built in shelves with heels neatly packed in each box, a long, rectangular table with Styrofoam model heads to display Anna’s wigs, a vanity with drawers on both sides and lightbulbs around the perimeter of the mirror, “Holy shit.”

“These are all the outfits I’ve ever worn, going back to…” Mickey closed his eyes and tried to think back in time, “two thousand twelve?” He grabbed the hanger with a slinky, pink, ‘silk’ nightgown on the far left rack, “First thing I ever wore to a gig. Ten bucks from Walmart.” Holding the small item up to himself, he barely groaned, “Half this shit doesn’t even fit anymore, I need to get rid of it.”

Ian wasn’t really paying attention to what Mickey was saying, he was admiring every little detail and how it was all organized and clean; nothing was out of place.

“Okay, next,” Mickey went to leave, but halted at the doorframe when Ian was still lingering around the makeup station. “Come on, this isn’t that interesting, man,” he urged, unsure why Ian was taking his sweet time looking at everything so closely. 

That extra call got Ian to move out, he turned off the light and followed Mickey to back from where they came, “Guest bath, ‘cause I know you’re gonna miss it,” he pointed toward another white entrance placed right across and between the two staircases. 

“Fuck _off_ ,” Ian felt his the apples of his cheeks warm up, hanging his head to hide any evidence. 

“And the man of the hour’s in here,” the door was cracked so the cats had access all day, Mickey flipped the light switch and headed in, “Newman, don’t be a douche,” Ian went straight for the cat, while Mickey put his cufflinks in a jewelry box and pulled grey shorts and a tank top out, sweating underneath his work attire. “I’ll be right back,” he escaped to the bathroom and Ian sat on the end of his ginormous bed, staring up at the vaulted ceiling with another crystal chandelier hanging above him.

“Hey, bud,” he held a finger out for the cat to smell and get acclimated to his scent. Newman instantly pushed his face forward to rub on Ian’s hand, then stood up from where he was sitting and laid down next to him, front paws rested on his thigh. Right as he got one cat to purr, the other came sauntering in like he owned the fucking place and jumped up to mirror his brother’s action. 

When Mickey pulled that door open and saw Ian covered in cats, using both hands to pet them from the top of their heads down their spines, he felt like his heart was about to burst out of his chest, “Jesus fucking Christ,” he fake complained, covering his emotions up. Again.

Ian turned his head to grin at him, ecstatic, “He loves me,” Mickey threw his dirty suit in the Dry Cleaner Hamper, “you said he hates everyone, but he loves me.” 

Mickey got up on his bed and laid flat against the freshly washed comforter; another thing he did while he was stressing himself out. “Cats do have a sixth sense or whatever,” he stared at the back of Ian’s head and how it moved from cat to cat, giving each the same, equal amount of attention and love. “They can tell when someone’s good or bad, you know? Psychic,” Ian turned his head to the side, just barely, then went back to looking down at his lap, wordlessly. “You gonna stay?” 

These peaceful and still moments were such a contrast from Ian’s home life. Having some want him, want to be with him, was an incredibly foreign concept for him, especially after everything that happened; to have a person be open to letting him stick around was unusual, but he wasn’t opposed, “If you’ll let me.” He let himself fall backwards onto the bed, the softness of his mattress forcing a slight moan from his lips, “Boss told me to take the rest of the week off.”

“You can chill here for however long you want,” Mickey crossed his ankles and folded his arms behind his head, “I mean, I’ll be at work, but you can hang out with the cats, relax without sirens bursting your fuckin’ eardrums.”

Ian tilted his head upward to see Mickey, even at such an awkward angle with cats covering his legs, “You’d let me stay all weekend?” 

“Why not?” Mickey didn’t meet his eyes, just kept his gaze upward toward the ceiling, “Ever since you came around this goddamn house feels too big.”

He wasn’t sure why he was letting this all out, why all of a sudden he felt comfortable exposing himself. Maybe it was because Ian didn’t judge him, didn’t mock him for feeling things other than anger and resentment. Maybe.

“Yeah,” Ian stared upward, “yeah, thank you.” 

“Your sister’s not gonna came after me, is she?” 

“Man, fuck her,” Ian scrunched his face up and swatted a hand in the air, landing his palm on his sternum. “I never talk to any of them, I don’t know why she thinks she has any say in what I do or who I see,” he blurted out, “none of them give a shit about me, none of them care.”

“Who’s ‘them’?” Mickey averted his observing eyes to Ian, watching his face move and express, “How many of you are there?” 

“Six, including me,” he heard Mickey let out a ‘Jesus, fuck’, making both men laugh. “Text them on their birthdays, but other than that,” he sucked in his lips between his teeth and raised his brows, “nothin’. Never been close to any of ‘em.”

Mickey brought his brows together, confused, “You live with your brother?”

“Yeah, ‘cause no one else wants to deal with him,” he countered, “not that _I_ do, but whatever. I’m the sanest person in that family, as ironic as that might sound.”

Ian spoke and Mickey listened, both enjoying the peace, quiet and companionship. 

“I’m the gay,” Ian held up his index finger, “bipolar,” a second, “middle child,” a third. “Add in the fact that I’m not even their full sibling,” he huffed out a breath, almost like this stuff had been stuffed down inside him for years and he was finally about to release it, “technically their cousin. Great combo for a shitty relationship.”

“What was your sister’s deal, though?” it didn’t feel like too much pushing, not when he was already saying so much about himself, “Why was she basically saying you’re a hooker?” 

“That’s a story for another day.”

Mickey accepted that and didn’t go any further, doing for Ian what he would want Ian to do for him, “You hungry?” 

“I’ve eaten about four times in the past two weeks, I’m starving,” and like it was planned, his stomach growled on cue. 

“What do you mean?” Mickey sat forward, now with a bird’s-eye view of Ian’s face, “Your family didn’t help you at all?” 

“What did I just get done saying,” Ian smiled brightly up at him. “They don’t care. Came over four times, made me a sandwich and left.”

He gawked down at him, eyebrows furrowed, wondering how on earth anyone could leave this human alone in his apartment for days on end, “I don’t know them, I don’t wanna know them, but I don’t like them.” 

“That makes two of us,” Ian agreed right when he felt the cats jump off his legs and onto the floor, finally letting him move freely. 

“What sounds good?”

“Chinese.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song: blow by beyonce

How was it possible to fall in love with a routine after only two days? How could something so new and domestic feel impossibly right, as if they had waited their entire lives for a stability like this? They weren't together, weren't dating, weren't anything, but the temporary situation felt comfortable and _normal_ , a thing neither man had ever experienced before.

Ian stayed at the house on Thursday while Mickey was at work, replenishing his energy levels by sleeping until noon and watching straight people scream about paternity tests on Maury to remind himself that his quiet, gay life wasn’t all that bad. The cats loved having a human to play with, someone to use as their own personal bed and treat dispenser, Newman even spent the day downstairs instead of in his dad’s room.

Having a man anticipating his arrival at home was completely new for Mickey, an idea he never imagined would become a reality. He rushed to leave work, got antsy in traffic, ran red lights that were barely yellow when he crossed the line just to speed things up and spend more time with Ian. There was no better feeling than walking through those double doors and having not only the cats greet him, but a laid back guy with ruffled hair and tired eyes, hands hidden in the pockets of his – Mickey’s – sweats that were way too small on him, pant legs riding up his shin.

But it was Friday, the day both of them looked forward to more than anything, and his mood instantly brightened as he entered his house, met with his three best friends for the second day in a row. It was stupid and irrational to want this forever and he knew it would inevitably come to an end when Ian leaves on Sunday, but he couldn’t help but hope this wasn’t the last time he’d come home to him.

“Hey,” Ian spoke loudly enough from the living room to reach the entryway when he heard the lock click on the front door. Mickey mumbled a response, untying the laces on his elegant dress shoes to toe them off by the ankles.

He came sauntering in, sock-clad feet soft against the floor, “It’s so fuckin’ humid out there, Jesus Christ.” Briefcase was thrown on the kitchen table, suit jacket tossed on top, tie pulled loose around his neck, “I hate this shit. I’d live in snow for the rest of my life if it meant I never had to sweat again.”

“You’re wearing like, ten layers of clothes,” Ian countered, grazing his growing fingernails along Cosmo’s spine, “you’re bound to get hot.” He watched as Mickey chugged a bottle of water, Adam’s apple bobbing with each gulp like he’d been stranded in the desert for months. “They make you wear those all year? Even in the summer?”

Mickey wiped the dribbles off the corners of his mouth with the back of his hand, “There’s no rule saying I have to,” he twisted the cap on the almost empty bottle, “I just _do_. I’m the boss, gotta look presentable.” Turning to see Ian for the first time since entering, he physically felt his heart swell. One cat lounging on the opposite end of the sectional, the other asleep on the man’s chest, orange hair out of place and flying in different directions from laying on it the wrong way. This is what he wanted, always.

“How was work, though?” Ian’s eyes followed Mickey as he came into the room, plopped down next to Newman and rubbed some beads of sweat off his forehead. His white shirt unbuttoned with the slack tie made him look like he came right out of a Calvin Klein ad, skin glistening and glowing under the sun’s setting light. He was beautiful.

“Fine,” Mickey shut his eyes for a moment, finally able to relax and bask in Ian’s calm presence. He didn’t even have to do anything, didn’t have to say a word, he could just sit there and unknowingly make all of Mickey’s stress fade away. “You know that stereotype about accountants being boring?” Ian nodded, placing a kiss between Cosmo’s eyebrows, “It’s true.”

“You’re not boring,” he shifted a little too much, causing the cat to hop off of him and onto the couch, ready to beg his dad for dinner, “you’re just a homebody.” Relieved of the weight over his heart, he sat forward and changed the channel on the T.V., searching for something more riveting to watch than local news.

“I go to work in an office, come home and hang out with you and my cats,” his lids were heavy, pleading to remain glued shut, “sounds pretty goddamn boring to me.” He listened as different shows were tested then skipped, nothing appealing to the man with the remote, “I mean, you probably got a buncha fancy EMT buddies you could hang out with, don’t know why you wanna be here all the time.”

Ian shook his head and smiled a bit, “You could break out a puzzle and I’d still choose to be here over going clubbing with straight guys,” without thinking twice, he reached out and stole Mickey’s water to take a sip from. “My ex used to make me watch him paint,” Mickey stared as Ian’s lips wrapped around the opening, their saliva undoubtedly mixing, and he took a long, drawn out swig, filling his cheeks like a hamster before swallowing, “literally made me watch paint dry.”

“You dated an _artist_?” Mickey teased, deciding to lay what Ian just did to rest, not wanting to make a big deal out of it. They were friends and friends shared things, hell, they’d even shared a cigarette when they barely knew each other. This was nothing, “How modern of you.”

“Firefighter. Shitty, wannabe artist,” he went back to clicking through the channels, still not settled on anything airing, “didn’t care about my opinions at all. He’d ask me what color to use, I’d say blue and he’d be like, ‘Nah, it needs yellow.’” Opening up was unintentional, but he couldn’t stop himself, “I don’t even wanna think about how many hours I wasted sitting through that, it was fuckin’ torture.”

Should he push? Should he delve in and find out more about his history? Obviously he wouldn’t if Ian seemed bothered by talking about his ex, but he appeared fine, unaffected by the mention of someone from his past, so he chose to dig, “Why’d you guys break up?”

Ian took some more liquid into his mouth, still blissfully oblivious to what he was doing, “I met him at the club I used to dance at right after I first started taking my meds, had nowhere else to go.” His voice was level and steady, “He took me in and that was nice or whatever, but when I got my shit together and wasn’t his charity case anymore, he lost interest and I felt super weird about it. I dunno how to explain it, but he treated me like I was his kid or somethin’? Once I was stable and could see it, I hated it.”

Mickey knew his face was scrunched up in disgust, unsure of how to respond. He just studied Ian’s face for any kind of reaction, but there was nothing. No emotion, no anger, sadness, regret, nothing. Only his grumbling stomach could pull him out of the haze, force him to stop gazing at this dreamy, ethereal man and get off his seat, “I’m gonna make dinner.”

Comforting people was never his specialty and neither was small talk; combine the two and he could come off a hundred times colder than usual. But Ian didn’t mind, didn’t think anything of it, actually. He just flipped through a list of On Demand movies while Mickey passed by and went into the kitchen. That was the thing with them: they knew each other’s boundaries and had grown to never attempt to squeeze more out of one another than what felt acceptable. There was an unspoken respect for their privacy, but both understood that they wouldn’t be judged if they wished to let the other hear a snippet of their life.

Mickey fed the cats and chopped up a variety of vegetables, threw them into a bowl and called it a meal. He put the salad on the table with multiple different dressings, plates and forks, then went for went for glasses, but stopped himself, “Do you get drunk on wine or just beer?”

“Any kind of alcohol,” Ian rose and walked to his designated chair, “but don’t let me stop you from drinking, it’s not like I’m an addict.” Mickey placed two cups of ice water on coasters in front of their dishes, “I don’t get triggered by seeing other people drink, I just can't.”

“No, I know,” he defended, “just don’t wanna look like an asshole or rub it in your face.” Mickey sat back and took a deep breath, shirt still drooping open, “Anyway, eat,” he gave a weak point to the salad, inviting Ian to take the lead.

“This all we’re having?” it came out more as a joke than an ungrateful criticism, but he took the tongs and piled the lettuce onto his plate. He served Mickey his as well, making sure they each had an equal amount of black olives and bacon bits.

Mickey picked the Italian dressing, drenching his food in the pinkish liquid, “You can make yourself somethin’ else if you want, but I gotta fit into some tight shit in a couple hours.” He poked a slice of cucumber with his fork and bit it in half, “You think you’re gonna ride with me or just stay here and come later?”

“No, I’ll go with you,” Ian chomped down on a ranch covered carrot, somehow instantly feeling like a superior being for eating vegetables instead of the usual cheap, accessible garbage found in his cupboards. “I wanna see the whole process, ya know?” a cat looped around his ankles in a figure eight motion, “I’ve seen you take it all off, but I wanna see you turn into a _woman_.”

“You’re gonna get bored,” he took off his tie and silently handed it to Ian who then laid it on top of Mickey’s jacket, “gonna be like watching paint dry again, except it’s on my face.”

“Yeah, but I actually like you, so it won’t be that bad,” it slipped out before he could stop his mouth from moving, embarrassment creeping up his neck and onto his cheeks. He kept his head angled toward his plate, trying to subtly let the blush subside rather than expose himself and his undeniably flushed skin.

Mickey continued to eat, verbally not making a comment, but screaming at himself inside to say something back. An angel on one shoulder saying _tell him you feel the same_ , a devil on the other advising him to stay quiet. As the seconds ticked away, the acceptable timeframe for a response or a joke became smaller and smaller, and eventually disappeared along with Mickey’s dignity.

“I think you’re gonna like tonight’s show, though,” he tried to change the subject enough to alleviate some of the obvious tension, but keep the conversation flowing about their plans for later, “it’s gonna be good.”

Ian lifted his stare and slowly turned his eyes to meet Mickey’s, wondering why on Earth he was skipping over the slipup as if it never happened. He watch the man smugly dart his tongue out to swipe across his lips, shiny with drips of dressing. It was taking every ounce of strength he had not to just lean forward and do what he’s been wanting to do for months, the overwhelming feeling of _need_ replacing his ability to speak fully, “Why?”

“Mmm,” he hummed in contemplation around a bite, elbow planted on the glass, fork casually dangling from loose fingers, “it’s a surprise.”

“Gimme a hint,” Ian stole Mickey’s dish and stacked it on top of his own, taking them to the sink to do his part of the household chores, albeit being the bare minimum. Mickey took the bottles back to the fridge, the bowl of leftover salad to the counter, “What’s the song?”

He transferred the food to a plastic container, stopping before closing the lid, “You’ll eat this later, right?” Ian nodded and that was that. The water in their cups was poured down the drain, everything cleaned and placed in the dishwasher just as Mickey liked; no evidence they had just had dinner, barely enough evidence to prove anyone lived there at all.

“Tell me the song, what is it?”

“That’ll give the whole thing away,” he led them through the hallway, up the stairs and into his room where Ian fell backwards onto the bed, legs hanging off the end. Mickey situated his cufflinks in his jewelry box, setting them right next to a Rolex he bought but never wore, “I’ll tell you the artist, though.” Shirt was ripped away from his still-warm skin and thrown in the hamper, pants next, “Beyoncé.”

Ian perked up, but didn’t avert his eyes from the ceiling. He knew what Mickey was doing, could hear the metal of his belt buckle chiming as his pants dropped to the floor, and knew he could look if he wanted to, except he wasn’t sure he’d be able to control himself or his blood flow if he saw anything, “Beyoncé?”

“Beyoncé,” Mickey confirmed, voice echoing slightly as he entered the bathroom. Ian listened for indications of what the other man was doing, the bathtub began to fill, cabinets were opened and closed, a tiny, stifled sneeze, “You gonna keep me company? Shit takes forever.”

“What?” he allowed himself to turn his head to the side, peeking into the bathroom, but was unable to see anything, thankfully and unfortunately.

“Shaving,” Mickey answered when the water stopped running, stepping into the small pool to sit on the edge. Splashing sounds traveled throughout the two rooms, making it harder for Ian to keep himself at bay, “Come in here, man. You wanted to see the process? This is the worst part.”

 _Shit._ He gracelessly rolled off the bed and landed on the ground. Internally, he repeatedly told himself to get it together, calm down, and just talk to him like a goddamn human being. The bathroom was huge, separate tub and shower, two sink vanity, white everything, including the pale man blending into the porcelain. Ian sat on the lidded toilet and silently began watching his routine.

Mickey was in only his underwear, foam covering one leg up to the knee with a single stripe carved out, “I dunno how or why people do this every day,” he dunked the razor under and gave it a shake, clearing out the blades. “Straight guys should do this once and maybe they wouldn’t be so critical about girls having hair.”

“I don’t think that’d change anything,” Ian’s focus was drawn to Mickey’s lashes, long and black against ghostly skin, fluttering with every blink, “they’re always gonna be critical, they’re the worst.” He saw his brows furrow when he nicked the ball of his ankle, hissing through his teeth when it started to sting, “A guy I work with went out with this girl a couple times, really liked her, and then dumped her after they banged ‘cause she didn’t shave her armpits. Told everyone at the station how gross it was, blah, blah, blah.”

“Jesus Christ, that’s fucked,” he cut himself again on his Achilles, beads of red plummeted into the water. “They should have some kinda standard too,” gently, he grazed the razor over his kneecap, careful not to do any more damage, “like, they refuse to fuck a guy if he has a beard. That’s the same concept, but sounds fuckin’ ridiculous if it’s reversed, huh?”

Ian nodded in agreement, never having thought of it that way. Mickey’s mannerisms were feminine, not overly, but they were clear. He was dainty, small and compact with little fingers, contrasting the fiery personality stuffed inside his frame, “Do you ever wish you were a woman?”

“I am,” Mickey stalled his hand and smiled brightly up at Ian, a soft chuckle forming from the concerned look on his face, “on Fridays.” He went over the now foam-free leg again, catching any imperfections or patches he missed, “Nah, I’m kidding. It’s too much work, one day’s more than enough for me.”

He covered the other leg with cream, rubbing it all in like lotion to get it foaming. He grabbed a second razor, fresh and sharp, and went to town, effortlessly gliding through to reveal silky, smooth skin.

“Tell me a story or something,” Mickey requested, mumbling a ‘fuck’ when more blood appeared. “What’s your family like? How many of you did you say there were?” he knew, he remembered, “Five?” wrong.

“Six,” he corrected, “but you don’t wanna hear about them, man.”

“Yeah, I do. Come on,” he borderline begged, “it might make me feel a lil better about mine.” It wouldn’t. There was no way in hell Ian’s past was worse than his or would come anywhere near the level of misfortune he encountered as a child, but he wanted to know. There’s something about knowing where another person came from that connects people in a different way, and he wanted to feel that with Ian. To understand what his background is, why his sister was such a bitch, why his brother’s an alcoholic. It was selfish, wanting so much from him without even considering giving that amount of information back, but he relied on knowing that one day he’d be able to. Maybe not tomorrow or the next day, or even the day after that, but he would. He’d have to.

“Alright, uh,” he shifted on the seat, hard and uncomfortable, “my mom’s name was Monica. She was a bipolar drug addict who was never around and passed away a couple years ago.” Mickey told him he was sorry, Ian told him to forget about it. “The guy I knew as my dad for fifteen years’ name is Frank, a homeless – hopeless – drunk who was slash is never around,” speaking fluently, he sounded unemotional, “so that’s where me and Lip get our shit from.”

“My real dad’s name is Clayton, met him once,” he leaned back, mapping it out in his head to make it as simple as he could, “he’s Frank’s brother. So technically Frank’s my uncle, my siblings are my cousins and this has got to be the most inbred, redneck shit you’ve ever heard.”

Mickey laughed along with him, keeping the mood light and joking about his trauma to help cope, “Fiona’s the oldest. She’s been taking care of us since she was a kid, was a mom before she reached the third grade. I think that’s why she’s so bitter, especially toward me, like,” he shut his eyes but could still hear the water jostling whenever Mickey would clean the blades, “she had to deal with our mom, mom dies, then I get the same thing and it ruined her life all over again.” It was easy to talk to Mickey like this, serene and tranquil, “She resents me for it, I know she does. And I can't blame her, like I know she’s a bitch to me, but I’d be the same way if I finally caught a break and then bam, another mess to clean up.”

He was about to tell him that wasn’t true, not to talk about himself like that and she didn’t resent him. But after meeting her and seeing how she treated him, there was no denying that depressing fact. “You’re not a mess,” was all he could come up with to comfort him, his words going unnoticed.

“Lip’s the second oldest,” with his eyes closed, he couldn’t see Mickey ride his underwear up to the crook of his hip to lather up this thighs, and that was probably for the better, “he’s smart, _so_ fuckin’ smart. Went to some robot technology college or something? I don’t even know, but he had so much potential and it’s all wasted. We were close when we were younger, but I got into JROTC at about the same time he started drinking a lot and I couldn’t be around that, so we started drifting apart, hung out with different people, never really talked to each other.”

“Hold on,” he paused mid-swipe, “you were in JROTC?”

“Yep,” vision still blocked, “wanted to be in the army. Anyway, he just kept getting worse and worse, dropped out of college, lost all the ambition he had, didn’t care about anything. And now he’s homeless and steals from me and the rest of the family to buy vodka.” He crossed his arms over his chest, “It’s so sad, though, ‘cause he was the one person everyone thought would get outta south side, _could_ get out if he really wanted to.”

“Then there’s me, the angel child,” both men smiled and Mickey flicked some soapy water off his fingertips in Ian’s direction. “Then Debbie. She got pregnant at fifteen, threw her whole life away, still lives at the house for free, no job, Fiona pays for everything. Like I said, can you blame her? Still taking care of kids that aren’t hers in her thirties?” he couldn’t see, but Mickey shook his head, “Carl’s living what was my dream; got the fuck outta here and enlisted. He’s the only one I like talking to, probably ‘cause I never do, but he asks me for advice with guys and stuff as if I’m someone to get advice from.”

“He’s gay?”

“Bi, always worried about getting caught out there, though. And Liam’s the baby that isn’t a baby anymore, our family’s last hope,” his lids slowly opened up, eyes initially aimed at the ceiling, but as they wandered lower and caught a glimpse of Mickey’s bare thighs, his mouth went dry, powerless to his body’s reaction.

“No offense, but I see why you keep your distance,” he set the razors down next to him on the side of the tub, “they don’t sound like a very fun groupa people to be around.” Ian confirmed he was right and laughed it off, completely aware of how messy his family was, “Can you hand me that towel, please?” Mickey pointed to the counter and Ian stood to grab it, tossed it and strategically landed it on his shoulder. He unplugged the drain and wiped himself dry, using the corners around his mistakes to not stain the fabric, and turned around, raising one leg up in Ian’s direction and wiggling his toes lightheartedly, “Feel ‘em.”

It was like his brain short-circuited and made him swallow his tongue, awkwardly reaching out with shaky hands to cup his knee and move over his thigh, feeling the strong, thick muscles holding the limb up in mid-air. He just went for it, ignoring the faint thought in the back of his head telling him that Mickey probably meant touch his shin, and let his palm cruise over the baby soft skin, only managing to say, “Smooth.” _Yeah. Real smooth, you goddamn idiot._

“The best part is goin’ to bed,” his foot fell to the floor, “like, I’d say you should shave just to have the experience of clean sheets on shaved legs, man, _fuck_ ,” he got up and readjusted his underwear, pulling them down much to Ian’s dismay, “that’s the good shit.”

He hung around while Mickey shaved his chest and five o’clock shadow, talking about everything and nothing all at the same time. When the time came for him to shower, Ian got booted out and returned to the king-sized bed, plush like a cloud, to wait. He tried to prevent himself from thinking what was happening just behind that door, but every time he told himself to ignore it, the more he thought about it. The idea of him in there, wet and soapy, was all that filled his mind, replacing any coherent thoughts he may have had with a completely inappropriate picture of his _friend_.

Mickey called him back in a little while later with that same towel now wrapped around his waist, hanging low on his hips, “Now what?” Ian followed him to the counter, one man in front of each sink, and took the opportunity to sneak a peek at his ass while he bent over to get lotion from a drawer, which was not helping the gradually forming situation in his pants. He peeled his eyes away as soon as Mickey was upright again, unaware that the latter had actually caught him staring.

“Now,” Mickey squeezed some peach colored, and scented, cream into his hand and held the bottle out for Ian, “we moisturize.” He oiled-up every visible place he shaved, making his whole body slick and glossy, while Ian just used it on his hands and forearms, internally loving that they’d smell the same all night. “Come on,” still more than half naked, he led Ian down the hallway and into Anna’s room.

“How do you pick out what to wear?” Ian filed through the racks of clothes, finding an occasional piece he recognized and had seen him in before. Hangers didn’t do them justice.

Mickey had his blue duffel bag on the vanity, exchanging certain products left in it from last week for new ones to create the look he was going for, “I buy fifty-two costumes at the beginning of the year so I don’t have to worry about it.” He swapped out his go-to red lipstick for the hottest pink he had in his collection, knowing the colors needed to be over the top and vibrant for tonight, “By the end of the year I’m left with the ugly ones I don’t remember buying, but whatever.”

“Which one’s for today?” Ian asked, hoping that the outfit would hint at a certain song and he might be able to decipher why he was going to like the show so much.

“It’s a secret, man,” he put a neon blue wig in a protective casing and quickly hid it in the bag, away from Ian’s prying eyes, “just be patient.” He had to get the guy’s attention off the clothes so he could pluck the chosen one off the rack without him knowing, “You wanna see somethin’?” Ian turned around, “Look in the closet.”

Hesitantly, Ian walked over to the double doors and slid them to the side, unimpressed by the lack of shock value. It was an average closet, more of a storage closet for Mickey than a drag closet for Anna, “What?” he craned his head back to look for guidance, confused as to what he was supposed to see.

“Open one of the bins,” as soon as Ian went back in to lift a lid, the costume and a pair of heels were silently pulled off the hanger and placed in the bag; even if there had been noise it wouldn’t have registered in Ian’s mind or had been heard at all, drowned out by the reaction he had to what was in the box.

“Oh my fucking God,” if he thought his mouth went dry seeing Mickey’s legs, a moving tote filled with cash gave him a run for his money; no pun intended. Bills of all amounts, some torn and faded, some crisp and fresh, all forming a sea of green right in front of his eyes. He leaned forward and dug his hands deep into what could be its own bank vault, “Jesus fucking Christ. Holy fucking shit.”

“Didn’t know you were so religious,” Mickey began messing with the makeup again, figuring out which eyeshadow pallets had the best selection of colors for what he needed. Seeing Ian so infatuated with money brought him back to his youth, where having cash was rare and having extra cash never happened. He didn’t even think about money anymore, it had become such a normal part of his existence that he had forgotten what it’s like to be broke until now, “You can take some if you want.”

Regret washed over him as soon as the words left his mouth. If there’s one thing he remembers hating more than being broke, it was pity. People with money to blow who wouldn’t bat an eyelash if a couple grand went missing from their bank account were the worst, and he told himself years ago he’d never become that person no matter how successful he became; apparently he lied. Thankfully, Ian didn’t seem to mind. He just sent back a simple, heatless, distracted, “I’m not taking your money,” and continued to raise fistfuls of cash only to let the bills drip off his fingers.

He took the duffel and left Ian alone, hoping he wouldn’t open the other three boxes stacked underneath the first. His average, comfortable boy clothes were put on, he followed his one-use-only rule for towels and tossed the dirty one in the hamper, hung a clean one on the rack. Ian wasn’t in Anna’s room or the guest room – which had basically morphed into someone else’s messy, personal sanctuary within two days – so he headed downstairs, finding him popping the last button through on the shirt he wore when he showed up on Wednesday, sweats changed to jeans.

“We don’t have to leave yet,” Mickey sat the bag on the kitchen table, startling the cats sniffing around the clump of their dad’s clothes on the floor that were now contaminated with another man’s scent.

Ian lowered himself down onto the couch and kicked his feet up, finding each time he was able to relax in this home more comforting than the last, “Can we stop by my place after the show so I can get some clothes that fit and don’t smell like shit?”

“Yeah,” Mickey gathered up his belongings from the ground and took them back upstairs, the need for clean overpowering the inconvenience. He stuffed them in his hamper and sensed a magnetic tugging toward Ian’s room, so he went. The fact that it was his home was used as a reason to okay the intrusion, even if he knew it was wrong to interfere with how someone decided to live.

He made the bed and arranged the pillows in a perfectly symmetrical manner, clearing the nightstand of all the empty water bottles accumulated during his stay. How Ian would react to him entering somewhere where he didn’t technically belong was to be determined, but he felt better knowing another section of the house was tidy and clutter-free, regardless of how stupid it sounded.

They watched T.V for a couple hours, Ian made himself a sandwich to fill the hole the salad couldn’t, and when it came time for them to leave their safe haven, Mickey realized he had been unintentionally leaning toward his _friend_ , their shoulders almost touching.

A shared Uber ride later, they got to the club. It was different to be there early when the sun was just about to dip below the horizon, the street usually only illuminated by lamps now orange in color. There were people there Ian had never seen before, queens roaming the halls that Mickey apparently knew relatively well as they all said hello and gave him high-fives. One in full drag, face painted expertly with their waist cinched in asked, “Is she new?” about Ian, to which he nervously replied, “No, I’m a man.” That got chuckles out of both of them, “Yeah, me too,” was all the queen said before giving Mickey one final goodbye and leaving them to enter his weekly dressing room.

“They’re just people, man, you don’t gotta act all weird around ‘em,” Mickey emptied out his bag and organized every bottle, compact, palette or brush just the way he liked it. “You’ve seen me in drag and don’t act like a deer in headlights, what’s the difference?”

“I don’t know,” he took a seat in an office chair with the ideal view of Mickey’s backside, “you look different, like pretty and young and-”

“Are you calling her old?” he twisted his whole body around to face Ian, a smug, partially shocked grin spread across his mouth. There was a moment of silence, a pause to let him explain himself, but he never did, “One of the best parts of drag is that it’s for everyone, not just kids in their twenties.” He was calm and collected, not wanting to attack Ian, but rather let him in on what it’s really like, “Women do drag, men do drag, there are kings and queens, old people, young people,” he took his shirt off, preparing for all the makeup fallout, “it’s an outlet of creativity for anyone who wants to participate.”

Yes, Mickey was beautiful. Yes, Mickey had every feature Ian could ever want in a man. Yes, Mickey was rich. Yes, Mickey was kind and generous and understanding and everything good in the world. But what Ian really, truly lo- _liked_ about him, was how accepting he was. His outlook on life and the people around him was something to be admired and appreciated in this day and age. Maybe it wasn’t overly unique to have those beliefs in this profession, but to hear it from a guy who only a few hours beforehand was coming home from his corporate job at the National Football League, probably surrounded by some of the least tolerant people on the face of the Earth, was crazy to see; a good crazy.

Knowing how he grew up, Ian envied how easy it was for Mickey to be who he was. How simple it was for him to be open and honest, even after claiming to live in the same area. He wanted to learn about him, how everything he owned came to be, how he got his job, how and _why_ he became a drag queen. The desire to know him on a deeper, more private level than what he’d been allowed was growing, becoming harder and harder to ignore or deny.

“Alright,” Ian scooted the chair closer to the vanity, coming up right next to Mickey’s side, head at his hips, “show me the process.”

“Glue.”

“Glue?”

“Glue,” he yanked the cap off and went to town, rubbing the tacky, purple stick in circles to trap the hairs, pressing hard to make them flat against his skin, “gotta make new brows.”

He had Ian help along the way, making the routine interactive and educational. It was like baking with a child: it took ten times longer to get the job done and he didn’t really contribute much, but it was a memory they both shared that would last a lifetime. He let Ian use the sponge to blend his foundation on one cheek, and went over it again when he wasn’t looking to fix any patchiness. Mickey offered to put eyeliner on his waterline, but after witnessing it first hand, he chose to decline.

They took their time, though. Unhurriedly layering on each component that lead to the final product, joking around with loose powder as if it was flour, Ian playing with the way too small fake acrylic nails. They talked about Ian getting put into drag and how he’d look like Bambi if he ever attempted to wear heels, let alone dance on a three to four inch stick. He tried to squeeze some information out of him about how he got into this, but Mickey just dodged the questions with the excuse, “I need to focus.”

Eventually, he was sent out of the room and into the line of civilians waiting, _paying_ , to see a person he could consider a friend. His best friend, even.

Mandy was first in line in a tank top and frayed shorts, both black in color, fanning herself with her phone, bangs sticking to her forehead with sweat. He walked along the crowd, footsteps catching her attention, and she almost bolted from her spot, but stayed in place, eyes wide and angry, “Where the fuck have you been?” she smacked his bicep weakly with her free palm.

That question sounded eerily similar to something he’s heard before. The phrasing, the tone, the concern behind the words; it was like he was having some kind of déjà vu moment, but couldn’t pinpoint where he had heard it before. “I know, I’m sorry,” he started, resting back against the brick wall, “I went through some shit, but it’s fine.”

“You ‘went through some shit’ for two weeks?” now the tone switched to condescending, “You couldn’t stop by here for a minute and let me know you were okay?” Ian shrugged, feeling like he was being interrogated by his family gain, except she actually cared about him, and checked his watch, just wanting to see Mickey again.

“I wasn’t feeling that great, alright?” he tried to defend his actions without telling her exactly what happened, not in the mood to go into all of his problems again, especially in public, “I’m sorry.”

She softened a bit, frame slackening to fall against the wall, giving up on the disappointed mother act, “Are you okay now?” Ian nodded and checked his watch again, frustrated when only a few seconds had passed since the last time. She bumped her shoulder against his teasingly, her mood apparently doing a one eighty, “She asked about you.”

“What do you mean?” he wished he had a cigarette, something to keep his hands busy, fill his mind and lungs with smoke until Mickey could take its place.

“Last week,” she began, speaking as if it was the juiciest piece of gossip, “during the song, she came to the end of the stage and pointed at me and I was like, uhh… what the fuck? So I went forward and she was mouthing something, but I couldn’t read her lips, but then,” excitedly, she got to the best part of her story, “she was like ‘your friend, the redhead’ and she pointed to her lips and wig and I was like OH, yeah, and I said I didn’t know. The end.”

Ian could physically feel his heart swelling, like it could burst out of his chest any minute, but he kept his composure, face blank. He sucked in his teeth to prevent a smile from breaking out, and nonchalantly replied, “That’s nice.”

He knew Mickey had thought about him during his depression based on his reaction when he returned, but he never thought he would risk exposing himself to another person for him. A tinge of guilt settled in his stomach thinking about how much worry he caused Mickey, albeit involuntarily. The last thing he would ever want to do is hurt him in any way, shape or form, but some things you just can't prevent.

“What more am I gonna have to say to convince you?” Ian looked down at her, “She wants to fuck you.” He shook his head and waved a hand to dismiss such an unrealistic idea, “I keep telling you, but you never listen. She gave you a lap dance, stares at you all the time, asked about you while you were gone… Come on.”

The bouncer stood behind his podium and unlatched the red rope blocking the door, ready with his stamp to take Ian’s ten bucks, “Whatever,” he handed over his bill, one of a couple he took from Mickey’s stash; the rest would be given right back, so it was like he wasn’t stealing at all, “I keep telling you that they’re only doing their job and that they don’t wanna fuck me, but you won't listen either.”

“Because that theory’s ridiculous,” she trailed behind him, stepping up to the end of the catwalk just like they always did, “and you’re being too modest. Gay guys wanna fuck gay guys, this isn’t a new thing just ‘cause she’s in drag. Underneath it all, I’m pretty sure she’s a man, although you can never be too sure. Aren’t you hot?”

The conversation took a hard turn, thankfully, “Yeah, kinda,” he unbuttoned everything to let the hot air touch his skin, not doing much to fix the problem.

They breathed in the humidity surrounding them, slick bodies against slick bodies, and when Ian saw those lights dim for the first time in weeks, it lit the flame inside him that had been aching to glow since that first day of his downward spiral.

Blackness was all he could see, nothing but a silhouette dragging a chair visible to the naked eye. _Shit_. It hadn’t even begun and the blood was already dropping from his brain, making him forget everything he knew except how much he craved the weight of Mickey’s thighs, those same ones he had the privilege of touching earlier, wrapped around his hips. It was all he wanted.

For Mickey, though, he was back in his element. The past two weeks had been rough, a little out of sync with himself and the performance, like he wasn’t giving it a hundred percent. But now with Ian in the audience, about to be on stage with him, he felt at _home_ ; more at ease than he probably ever had.

Before the song started, Anna signaled Ian to come up and join them, making Mandy freak the hell out again, pushing him forward while yelling, “Holy fuck! Holy shit! Holy fucking shit!” repeatedly until Ian snapped out of it and walked forward, raising himself onto the platform and taking a seat in what could potentially be labeled as his favorite chair of all time.

The lights came on and it was _neon_. A bright pink, high waisted, latex skater skirt with natural forming pleats and a matching skintight piece of rubber working as a tube top, just a strip of it flush with their body. Smurf-ish hair, a vibrant blue wig, half raised into a high pony tail, the waves flowing down to the center of their back. Pink lips that coordinated with the skirt, eyeshadow that was even more flawless than when he saw it be applied.

That was the only word he could think of to describe this: flawless. From head to toe, they were _perfection_ , not a single bit of the completed look was out of place or seemed to be rushed. They were embodying a rainbow, the brightest and freshest kind that only appear after two weeks of rain.

“I love your face,” they cupped his cheek with a palm, fake nails pressing into the underside of his jaw, “you love the taste,” their thumb dragged his bottom lip down, making him taste the lotion they used together, “that sugar, babe,” opaque white heels clicked against the floor as they stepped backwards, “it melts away… Mmm.”

The beat picked up and cash began waving. They leaned over to reach the crowd, legs spread, intentionally letting Ian see their ass being squished out of their bottoms underneath the skirt, unable to fit it all in the restrictive material. Coming back around to Ian, they stood behind him and ran their hands down his bare chest, fingers linking above his bellybutton, warm breath tickling his neck, “I kiss you and you lick your lips.” For a moment, their lips _did_ brush against his throat, making goosebumps form along his arms, “You like it wet and so I. No, you never waste a drip. I wonder how it feels sometimes,” their eyes caught on the lump developing in his jeans and gave a real, legitimate peck on his cheek, “must be good to you.”

His jaw went slack in disbelief, trying to figure out if that truly just happened. He turned his head to follow them as they walked away, feeling satisfied yet blue-balled all at once. They kept looking back to him as they collected their earnings, all while mouthing the words, “Keep me coming, keep me going. Keep me humming, keep me moaning. Non-stop love until the morning. Non-stop screamin’, freakin’, moaning. Blow-ow-ow.”

“Can you eat my Skittles, it’s the sweetest in the middle,” they returned to him, bills sticking out of their top in all different directions, and used his shoulders to balance, flinging one leg over both of his as if they were hopping on a horse, “Pink is the flavor,” a nail tapped on the stain they left, “solve the riddle.” They pressed their body against his, chest to chest, and looped their arms around his shoulders to get closer to his ear to whisper, “Touch me, play it up.”

He didn’t have to be asked twice.

He took advantage of this, just like the person under the mask was. It was their time to be freely and fully infatuated with each other, show one another just how into them they were without worrying about being rejected or coming on too strong. They knew the audience loved it, _they_ loved it, and it didn’t matter if in a few minutes it’d be done, Anna would be Mickey, and they’d go back to being two normal guys without the courage to make something more out of their relationship.

Hands roamed up their thighs, over the skirt, and onto their waist to hold them while they fell away from him, leg muscles clenched around Ian’s for extra security, “Imma lean back, don’t worry it’s nothing major. Make sure you clean that, it’s the only way to get the,” they sat back up on cue, “flavor.”

“When you’re thirsty and need love, I’ll give it up ‘til I’m empty, baby, must be good to you,” their palms wandered across his pecs and spread his shirt open a little more, his went up and down the sides of their spine, the visual alone making the crowd go wild. They started rocking their hips, purposely making his head tilt back, eyes shut, lips slightly parted, “If you’re lonely in your bed, I’ll fill it up to the top, baby, must be good to you.”

They stood up again and continued the show, sporadically using Ian as a prop, but mainly just showed as much ass as they could to get paid. Ian wasn’t even paying attention to the song or anything besides this stunning, surreal human who had no idea how much impact they had on his life, but the lyric, “I can’t wait ‘til I get home so you can tear that cherry out,” stuck in his mind. He needed to stop being such a wimp and do something about this, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could take it.

Anna disappeared into the wings of the stage and Ian dropped down to the main floor, immediately getting slapped playfully by Mandy. “I keep. Fucking. TELLING YOU,” her eyes were narrowed, brows furrowed familiarly, words causing others to stare at them confused, “why can’t you see it?”

Ian led her outside and tried to slyly readjust his very obvious erection that had been building since Mickey got home, “I’ve been up there before, they know I’m cool with it, probably just didn’t wanna do it with someone else, that’s all.”

“That’s the point, dipshit,” she released her hair from its tie and redid it, tightening the loops to keep it on top of her head, “she didn’t wanna do it with someone else ‘cause she wants to _do it_ with you.” Her knuckles popped and she started picking at her skin, still fidgety from the lack of nicotine in her life, “I’m sick of this whole back and forth charade and I’m not even a part of it.” She gasped and gripped his forearm, “Oh my God, I have an idea.”

Unimpressed and aching, literally, for Mickey, he shouldn’t have asked, “What?”

“We stay out here until she comes out.”

_SHIT._

“We wait until she leaves, ‘cause she has to leave sometime, right? And when she comes out, we ask her why the fuck she won't man up and make a move,” she sounded so pleased with herself and her already-used plan, “give her no choice but to confront you.”

“No,” he whined, shaking his head, “no, we’re not doing that.”

“Yes, we are.” She pulled her phone out, thumbs moving a mile a minute, “I’m gonna tell my girlfriend I’ll be home late, we’re gonna sit on that bench once all these people get the hell out of here, and we’re gonna wait. I’m not taking no for an answer.”

That didn’t last very long. About an hour into waiting, an hour of his stomach twisting and turning knowing Mickey was in the building expecting him to come back, an hour of Mandy complaining about how hot it was and about how long Anna was taking, she gave up.

He was a little bit too excited when she admitted she was going to head home, saying his goodbye more quickly than normal, already inching his way toward the alley, but she told him she was too scared to ride home alone at that time of night. Understandable.

But also a goddamn pain in the ass. Everything was already messed up, Mickey was probably convinced he hated him or something, his boner long since subsided. So, being the good friend he was, he agreed to share an Uber. Which was a good thing, honestly, because staying at the club while she left would’ve looked incredibly suspicious, but a bad thing because if Mickey came looking for him, he’d be gone. It was a no-win situation, but he had no other option.

After Mandy got home safely, the driver took him back to his place to grab two changes of clothes and his meds. He’d been off them the past couple days, not expecting to have been welcomed back into Mickey’s life with such open arms, but he felt fine. A thought temporarily entered his mind about maybe not needing them anymore as he went into the medicine cabinet, but took the orange bottle anyway, not willing to risk hurting Mickey any more than he already had.

Sitting on the porch of a house in the suburbs with rich people peeking out their windows to make sure you aren’t doing anything illegal is not something Ian wanted to experience again. He went through it once on Wednesday and now for a second time, probably making the neighbor’s comfort levels sink into the ground. He knew it looked odd; a guy with an unbuttoned shirt, sweaty hair, and a grocery bag full of clothes and pills camping out on someone’s doorstep, but he kept his head down and waited for the inevitable.

After sitting around for Ian, counting his earnings over and over again, cleaning his brushes that weren't even dirty, Mickey, too, gave up. He wasn’t sure what he did, what he said, maybe what he _didn’t_ do or say, but pulling up to his house in someone else’s car and seeing a redheaded figure stooped out front like he had just two nights ago, made all of those anxieties wash away.

He said thank you to the driver and raised himself out of the car, walked up the driveway and fixed the duffel bag’s strap on his shoulder, “The hell happened?” A neighbor heard his voice and poked their head out from behind their curtains to make sure their youngest resident wasn’t in any danger, “I told you you could come back in, why’d you leave?”

“It was my friend, Mandy,” he stood up watched Mickey unlock the door, blocking the cats from slipping out with his foot, “she’s uh… she’s convinced that you or Anna or whatever wants to, um,” he stumbled over his words, dropping his weekend belongings on the ground next to their removed shoes, “and these are her words, not mine. She’s convinced you wanna ‘fuck’ me,” he used two fingers to imitate quotation marks, “and she wanted to stay after to meet you, but got bored after an hour.”

“Didn’t you wait like, four one time?”

“Probably,” he fell onto the couch sideways, feet hanging off the edge, “but then she didn’t wanna ride home alone, so I rode with her, then figured I’ve save you the trauma of going to my hellhole again and just got my stuff on the way here.”

“I thought you were mad or somethin’,” Mickey tossed an ice-cold water onto Ian’s stomach, jolting him forward. He sat down on the other side and turned the T.V. on, taking a big gulp of his own liquid, “Like maybe you didn’t wanna be on stage again. I guess I should’ve asked you, huh?”

“Fuck, no,” Ian sat up straight and took a sip, watching the pages on the guide pass by, “who in their right mind would be mad after that?” He saw Mickey give a barely-there smile and switched to the shows he recorded, choosing one that made Ian feel even more connected to him, “You watch Colbert?”

“He’s the only thing that keeps me sane with this orange piece of shit in office,” he fast-forwarded to the monologue, pausing to finish their conversation without missing anything. “Why, you watch him?”

“I went to a live taping last year, drove to New York as a birthday present to myself,” he sat the bottle on a coaster and connected a couple buttons on his shirt, no longer hot or surrounded by humid air.

“I used to watch him on The Daily Show with Jon Stewart back in the day,” each man received a cat jumping onto their laps, happy to have their people home, “after everyone went to bed, I’d sneak out into the living room to catch at least some of it. Have the volume down so far it was almost muted to keep my dad from waking up.”

“We should go see him sometime,” Ian offered, scratching Newman under his chin, “get outta here for a couple days. I’d kill to go to New York again.”

“Never been.”

“Seriously?” he asked, hand stalled. Mickey nodded and stroked his palm down Cosmo’s spine, “Well, then, yeah. We gotta go.”

The show resumed, animals content, men blissful, home warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> with recent comments from rupaul, i just wanted to remind anyone who reads this that maybe isn't overly familiar with drag that drag isn't just cisgender gay men dressed as women. a lot of the time it's a celebration of femininity, but there are so many forms that can't and shouldn't be stuffed into a box. it's an art form and should be treated as such. anyway, with that said.. i apologize for this taking so long and i hope you enjoy. any and all feedback is appreciated :)


	11. Chapter 11

July had come and gone, although the heat remained. The boys spent virtually every single day together, Ian would hang out after work and leave after a few hours, but each time that moment came, they thought of a way to stall the inevitable and delay his departure, even if for only a few minutes.

The weekends were theirs to cherish, regardless of what they ending up doing. Ian tagged along for errands, met his drycleaner, saw the adoptable kittens at the pet store, consistently asked why Mickey insisted on shopping at some fancy ass organic food store where lettuce cost more than he was willing to spend all week on meals, but enjoyed every second of it.

Mickey had brought him to his office one night when he needed to fix something a stupid kid fucked up, and gave Ian free rein to the sea of unoccupied cubicles stacked high with papers and binders and calculators; everything from school he never wanted to see again.

Examining him behind his giant, presidential, wooden desk was a sight he had only imagined up to the point. He stood leaning against the doorframe, not-so-sneakily watching Mickey’s habitual movements. Biting the end of his pen as his eyes scanned the sheet in front of him, scratched the nape of his neck before making a decision and wrote on the page with finality. He was so small next to that furniture artwork hybrid, small but big in terms of responsibility and title.

That was also when Ian realized he had never heard his last name: Milkovich. _Mr_. Mickey Milkovich was engraved on a plaque facing outward to anyone who dared to come inside those four walls. It was strong and smooth, rolled off the tongue; the whiskey of names, the whiskey of people.

Usually, he would’ve thought about how Mickey would look spread out across the desk, how he’d fit perfectly on his back, legs raised and ready, and he had thought about it multiple times. But all he could feel now while seeing it first hand was pride and an indescribable amount of adoration, soul brimming with endearment and fondness.

In the beginning, he would’ve been okay with just fucking. Mickey was so beautiful, he could’ve listened to his cock instead of his brain had he been given the chance. That’s how it started with his ex and how everything before him had happened, never caring about the future or sticking around for more than a night, but this situation was different and it was all thanks to Mickey.

Making Ian chase him, _want him_ , without giving him a taste – out of drag, at least – made him reevaluate everything saw for himself in the coming years. No longer did he see himself sitting alone in his apartment, wallowing in isolation and self-pity. Now everything was brighter, he felt more alive and excited for whatever the future had in store for him, as long as Mickey would be there with him.

Going through the normal steps of a developing relationship was new and unfamiliar to him, but it was a lot less boring than he thought it should’ve been. Maybe it was because of who he was with, maybe it had grown into him as he aged, maybe it was a combination of the two. Either way, it didn’t matter.

It was excruciating, though, being so close to him yet so far away. To have their fingertips brush as they walked out of the building together, but never letting them do what felt natural: connect. A few days prior, Mickey had sat on the floor in front of the coffee table to work on a headpiece and used Ian’s knee to assist in him standing up, sending shockwaves throughout his whole body. It was intentional.

The little things were what gave Ian a burst of reassurance. Each touch, each landed joke that made Mickey laugh, the rare occasion of a hand finding its way onto the small of his back as he was led through a door. They all reminded him that getting to know someone was more important than fucking, and his patience would, hopefully, be rewarded.

They were so in tune with one another, but so out of sync at the same time. Mickey would purposely initiate some kind of affectionate contact, Ian would internally tell himself that he meant nothing by it, Mickey would get no response or reciprocation, he’d say, “Sorry,” and move on, discouraged. And every time Ian gave nothing in return, it solidified the thought in Mickey’s head telling him to _back the hell off, he isn’t interested, he doesn’t like you like that, get your hands away from him_.

If only Ian knew that Mickey was trying to get his attention, to get him aware of just how much he wanted him. And if only Mickey knew that Ian was trying to be respectful and take things slowly, always staying conscious of his boundaries, never wanting to cross the line into uninvited territory. Again, it was excruciating.

But it was a little over a week deep into August and the start to another weekend, starting with Friday’s show. They had met up at the club and Ian watched the transformation again, still infatuated with the amount of talent it took to completely convert into a whole new person. He met up with Mandy outside after promising Mickey he’d return to the dressing room, and payed the entrance fee.

She was going on and on about how her girlfriend wanted her to “meet the parents” and how she needed an excuse to get out of it, begging him to help her come up with ideas or illnesses she could easily fake. He tried to follow along, but she had so many thoughts exiting her brain, going from topic to topic, he couldn’t keep up.

Her mood changed as soon as Anna walked out on stage. She turned silent, cold, unresponsive to the screams around her or the song spilling out of the speakers, it was as if her entire body went numb. Ian reacted the same way, but for a much different reason.

A sash.

A baby pink, silk sash with Birthday Girl embroidered in white thread was how Ian found out one of the more important pieces of information you could know about a person. It swayed with their body, flowing diagonally from shoulder to hip, letting the whole club know it was their special day which obviously made the crowd hold up twenties instead of tens.

Ian was able to snap himself out of it, get into the swing of things again and get his special treatment from the man behind the mask, saving his “why didn’t you tell me?” rant for later. But Mandy’s arms were stiff and stuck to her sides, only moving her focus to follow Anna around, reading the sash repeatedly to make sure she wasn’t just seeing things.

Every time Anna would come to the end of the catwalk, her eyes would narrow like she was trying to melt the makeup off with her stare to see the face underneath it all, but the queen would catch on and shift to another area, another cluster of fans pleading for them to take their cash.

The place started to empty out, but she didn’t move. She could hear Ian talking to her, voice muffled by what felt like cotton in her ears, but it took him gently shaking her shoulder for her to rise out of her daze, “What?”

“You okay?” he pushed her bangs out of the way to press his palm on her forehead, feeling for a temperature (which was nearly impossible considering how hot it was outside), “You didn’t move a muscle that whole time. What’s goin’ on?”

She shook her head and began to leave, “Nothing,” needing a lot more than just a breath of fresh air. She rested against the brick to steady herself, blue eyes flickering back and forth across the pavement trying to make sense of what she just saw, while also trying to debunk it and erase any irrational thoughts that might slither their way into her mind.

“Bullshit,” he turned to look at her with one bicep connected to the wall, failing to read her expressions. “What’s wrong?”

Her face was blank like she had seen a ghost, but her brows were knitted together in concentration, “There’s no way…” she swallowed hard and scrubbed her hands over her face, pulling the shorter hairs away from her skin and melding them into the longer strands for a moment, keeping her fingers gripped onto her scalp, “Never mind. It’s stupid.”

“There’s no way what?” she started pacing, fingers now tight on the skin curved around her itty bitty hips, “Jesus, what is it?”

“It’s my brother’s birthday too,” was blurted out before she could stop it, her feet never pausing on the concrete, “and I keep telling you I think I know her, but… No,” she shook her head again, “no, there’s no fuckin’ way.”

“You think Anna’s your brother?”

“I don’t,” she shrugged her shoulders and let out a breathy laugh, shocked by her own ridiculous accusation, “I don’t know? I don’t think so? But I haven’t seen him in a really long time, I don’t know who he is or where he is or anything.” He watched people hop into cars by the handful, “Sees his little sister every week for almost four goddamn years and never says hi? Nothing?”

“You don’t see him any other time?”

“I haven’t talked to him in a _long_ fuckin’ time,” she pulled her phone out to check any messages she had and quickly stuffed it back into the barely-there pockets of her shorts, “I don’t even know if he’s still alive and I can't let myself think he wouldn’t say shit to me if he knew I was here this whole time.” Ian’s face dripped with concern, but he also knew this was utterly impossible, “It’s just easier to believe he’s dead, ya know? He’s gone. He’s not Anna. He’s not here. Simple.”

“Maybe they meant their birthday was today?” he attempted to calm her down, change the direction of her downward spiral, “Like today as in Saturday ‘cause it’s after midnight. Wanted to get an early start on presents. Or maybe it’s Anna’s birthday, like the first day they did drag?”

He could physically see her face soften, liking that idea or temporary solution to her problem, “Yeah,” she nodded, convincing herself that’s what it was, “yeah, you’re right.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, stepping forward to bring her into a hug, “c’mere, relax,” a palm cradling her head into his neck for comfort. “You gonna be okay getting home?” _please say yes, please say yes, please say yes_.

“Mhmm,” a dry sniffle came from the crook of his throat before she pulled back, exposed skin sticking to exposed skin from the humidity, “I’ll see you next week.”

“Okay,” he kept an eye on her as she disappeared down the street. It was shitty to want her gone during a time of crisis, and he knew that, but he knew he wanted to see Mickey more. And an upset girl who was overthinking an absolutely unreasonable conspiracy theory hanging around would make that kind of difficult.

He waited on was could now be known as _his_ bench until everyone had left and he was alone, free to vanish into the alley and into the back of the club. The door slammed behind him, but he was already on the hunt to find Mickey’s dressing room. He knocked once, heard a, “Come in,” and entered.

Before Mickey could even explain himself, Ian was already on him, “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me it was your birthday?”

“Must’ve slipped my mind, I guess,” he smiled at an unenthused Ian through the mirror, smudging red lipstick everywhere. “Didn’t think it mattered, didn’t wanna celebrate turning twenty-seven,” fake eyelashes were pulled off and set back in their container, “didn’t want you to get me anything. Which you can't now, by the way, ‘cause it’s not my birthday anymore. Against the rules.”

Ian sucked in his bottom lip and tried to act angry, but really he was failing miserably to stifle his grin, “That’s not fair,” he countered, finally taking a seat in his rolling chair, “I didn’t even get the chance to not get you anything.”

“That’s the point,” another wipe was tossed into the miniature trashcan, “you didn’t know, you couldn’t do anything.”

“You gotta at least let me buy you a drink or something,” Ian glanced toward the floor and saw a bag filled with so much cash it didn’t even look like it would zipper. “Breakfast? Lunch? Dinner?” he listed, “I could write you a check? Come on, work with me.”

“You’re not buying or giving me anything,” he turned around, shirtless, and leaned against the counter with both hands rubbing in circles over his eyebrows to loosen the glue. “If you wanna do something, you gotta wait ‘til next year when I’ll be turning,” he sighed, hung his head and spoke lowly, “twenty-eight.”

“I’m buying you breakfast in the morning, I don’t care if it isn’t your birthday and I don’t care if I gotta _drag_ you to the car myself,” brows were wiggled suggestively at the unintentional pun, “you’re going.”

“Whatever,” he flipped back around and did one final swipe over the baby hairs. There were barely any wipes left in the pouch, so he used each one until they were basically reapplying the makeup he had just taken off. “Hey, what was with your friend?” he knew, “She was lookin’ at me all weird.”

It was a risk going out there with a piece of himself out on display for everyone to see, but mainly for Mandy to see. He just had to hope she had either forgotten who he was by this point or was just too dumb to connect the dots for herself. Too bad neither of those appeared to be true.

“Oh, nothing,” Ian scooted forward to Mickey’s side, “she thinks you’re her brother.”

He was so nonchalant about it, so blatantly unaffected by the possibility of them being related that it worried Mickey for when he found out. It was unavoidable and there was no telling how he would react, if he would be pissed out him lying, if he’d go and tell Mandy. Keeping it under wraps was vital for all of their happiness, but it couldn’t be kept a secret forever. He just laughed along with Ian like it was the craziest thing he’d ever heard, while feeling his heart drop to his stomach, terrified of them finding out.

Mickey took off as much of his female identity as he could with the very few cloths he had left, mainly focusing on erasing the panda eyes and Joker mouth to make himself look at least somewhat normal. He led Ian out, each man with a bag slung over their shoulder, and sat on the bench to wait for their car, “We gotta stop at the store really quick.”

“For what?”

“Makeup wipes, ‘cause I know I’ll forget to get ‘em if I don’t right now,” he pulled his phone out to check on the cats, “and I’ve been craving a peanut butter and jelly for like, two weeks, so we gotta get that shit too.”

“Cool, that means I can buy you a cake,” Ian leaned in closer to him, peeking over to see the two animals sleeping on the screen, “and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“You’re not buying me a cake,” heatless, he barely fought back. He did want a cake, he wanted to celebrate with Ian, but he didn’t know how. There had never been birthdays in his house growing up, no streamers, no banner, no presents, no cake, no candles, no song. In all of his twenty-seven years, he never thought twice about what was supposed to happen on his birthday: drink a beer and go to sleep a year older. That’s what his dad tried to instill in him, although it never stuck.

He didn’t know how to do a lot of things when it came to Ian. The inability to read people and their signals came from years of social isolation, never being around people his age, never learning how to flirt or respond to flirting. It was an irritating thing to live with, especially with this intimidatingly beautiful human around him all the time. He didn’t know when the right time was to make something happen, didn’t know if _he_ was the one who was supposed to do it, didn’t know if he was supposed to wait for Ian to it. A Being Gay for Dummies book would’ve come in handy.

They wandered around a deserted twenty-four-hour Safeway, going up and down each aisle in search of absolutely nothing. Mickey got his wipes and jelly, and sluggishly followed Ian into the bakery section, forced to pick out what flavor he wanted.

“You got red velvet, chocolate, vanilla, and carrot,” Ian named off as the stood in front of the cooler, keeping the frosting from melting in the heat. He took the basket from Mickey to let him choose, “Which one?”

“You’re really into this whole charade, huh?” he liked it.

Ian nodded with a smile and pointed toward the shelves of clear plastic boxes, inviting him to decide before he decided for him. Mickey chose the carrot, only because it seemed like the healthiest option, and tossed it in with the other items hastily, pretending to be pissed. Ian could see right through him, “Alright, get bread and then we gotta go back and get candles.”

“Nah, I draw the line at candles,” he grabbed the cheapest load of white bread, ideal for PB&Js, and gently laid it in the basket, a one-eighty from how he threw the cake, “no candles, no song.”

“I’m paying for all of this, you know that, right?” Ian began to walk back to the baking aisle, still talking without even knowing if Mickey was following, “I’m buying you some fucking candles to go on your fucking cake for your fucking birthday,” it was demanding and ended with a shit-eating grin over his shoulder, making Mickey breakout into a breathy, smiley laugh.

“Jesus Christ,” he jogged to catch up the giraffe turned human as he turned the corner, stole a pack of rainbow candles off the peg, and continued down to the front of the store, “can you slow down, holy fuck.”

He didn’t. Ian got to the register and dumped everything out, slid his card and ignored the stream of reminders telling him he didn’t have to spend his money on this shit, how he shouldn’t feel obligated to buy anything for Mickey, but he did it anyway.

They walked out looking like a couple of drifters: Ian with his backpack, Mickey with his two duffels, and both carrying a plastic grocery bag. He booked the car before Mickey could protest, and they took a seat on the concrete to, again, wait for their ride.

Once home, Mickey escaped upstairs to wash his face clean of the leftover makeup, while Ian arranged eighteen candles in a circle around the cake. He wasn’t thinking when he only took one box, but he figured it might make him feel a little better about inching closer to thirty, might lighten the mood.

The cats stood on their hind legs, paws clawing at the counter trying to get to whatever smelled so good, and walked beside Ian’s feet as he moved the cake to the middle of the table. He listened for steps coming down the stairs, then lit the display of candles with his lighter and started to sing as he got closer, “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you.”

“Alright, enough,” he waved a hand to get Ian to stop, beaming brightly at the man holding Cosmo and swaying as if they were slow dancing.

“Happy birthday, dear Mickey,” Newman meowed from the ground, “yeah, sing it, man. Happy birthday to you.” Cosmo jumped from his arms and looped around his dad’s ankles, “There’s only eighteen candles ‘cause a: you look so young, and b: twenty-seven probably would’ve burnt the house down.”

“Fuck off,” giving in, he let himself bask in the attention, something he typically only enjoyed while being on stage. He closed his eyes, made a wish, and blew all the flames out in one go, “Donald, Mike and Paul all better be impeached within the next year or I’m gonna be extremely disappointed and it’ll be your fault.”

“It’s not gonna come true now ‘cause you told me,” Ian got two plates, forks and a knife to slice up the dessert. He put a slab on each dish and Mickey took them to the living room, leaving Ian to clean up his own mess, “Get ready for six more years of trash.”

“That’s not even funny,” he turned on Colbert and paused it to wait for Ian, “I swear I’ll move to Mexico or some shit if he gets elected again.” A fingertip covered in icing was sucked into his mouth with innocent eyes looking up at Ian as he came closer, undoubtedly making his blood rush downward.

Ian sat right next to Mickey, arms nearly touching, two pairs of feet kicked up on the coffee table with cake in their laps. This was their nightly routine, minus the dessert: Colbert and an undeniable ache to let their bodies touch. It was always there, a dull longing for the other to just reach a hand out, let their body fall a little to the side to rest up against the other, do _something_ to relieve the tension.

They watched Stephen’s monologue and skipped the interviews of celebrities they didn’t know, slowly eating the decadent, caving-creating food. The cats curled up beside each other on the furthermost end of the couch and the T.V was playing quietly, the humming of an air conditioner filling the silence. Mickey set both of their plates on the table and slouched back, arms crossed over his belly.

“Look at me,” Ian said, his cheeks drawn up from just how cute Mickey looked. He turned his head and Ian reached out to his lip, index and middle finger cupped under his chin, “You got some frosting…” the pad of his thumb swiped along the corner of his mouth to push the sweet, white substance into his bottom lip, dragging it down to keep the contact as long as possible.

Neither could find a spot to focus their eyes on. Mickey’s flickered from Ian’s eyes to his twitching lips to his extended arm, wondering when or if it would be retracted. Ian couldn’t pull his stare away from the plump, pink lip trapped under his hold. This was the closest they had ever been alone, the longest a touch had ever gone.

Mickey could feel Ian’s fingers shaking, like he wasn’t sure if he had just taken things too far and ruined everything they’d built, but both stayed in place, not budging at all. He saw Ian swallow and felt his grip releasing from his chin, and before he could let himself think twice about the repercussions, he did it.

Lips slotted together like pieces of a puzzle, effortlessly moving together without any full realization of what they were doing. Mickey sat up straighter to fix the angle and planted a hand on Ian’s thigh to push himself further into his bubble, wanting to meld into him and become one. He was far and away taking control, Ian was just along for the ride, confused and turned on, his arms limp at his sides, unsure of what to do with them or what was happening.

A floodgate had been opened and Mickey felt like he could do this forever. The feeling of Ian’s teeth barely grazing his bottom lip was enough, but scooching his hand up his thigh and feeling an increasingly noticeable hard on made it even better. They’d separate for a split-second to inhale, then go back without missing a beat. Both lost in another world where nothing else existed, it took Ian finally coming around and moaning into the kiss while wrapping a palm around the back of Mickey’s neck to shock him back into reality, pulling back and releasing the suction between them, “Shit,” he stood up and ran his fingers through his hair, “shit, I’m so fucking sorry.”

“No,” it came out as an immediate whine, pleading with only one word, and he reached out to stop Mickey from walking away, but it was too late. He watched as the cause of his intensified heart rate leaned over the sink as if he might puke, and he sat forward with his head hanging low, elbows on his knees. He spoke softly down to the unrelenting growth between his legs, begging for it to chill the fuck out, “Go down, go down, go down. Don’t do this.”

Newman looked back and forth between his two people, stretched an arm out and yawned at the same time, and fell back to sleep, happily oblivious to what was going on.

Ian didn’t know what to do. Did he go over and finish what Mickey started? Or did he stay back and give him space, even though it would be painful as all hell? He pressed the heels of his palms into closed eyes, needing to separate himself from the situation to form an objective opinion. That was hopeless.

After spending a few more minutes hoping Mickey would come back and he wouldn’t have to be the one to make the next move, giving himself a whispered pep talk consisting of, “Just do it. Just go over there and fucking do it, you little pussy ass bitch. Just do it,” he rose from the couch and rubbed his clammy hands over his jeans, taking slow steps in Mickey’s direction.

He could hear sock-clad feet coming closer and closer behind him and felt his chest tighten with Ian entering his space once again. “I’m sorry,” it was quiet and broken, spoken into a porcelain sink rather than who it was aimed at, “I wasn’t thinking,” yes, he was.

Noiselessly, Ian creeped up and with trembling fingers, placed both hands on Mickey’s waist. His breath was warm against the buzzed baby hairs on the guy’s neck, flushed pink from the heat of the summer and the heat of Ian. He poked his tongue out to lick his lips, closed his eyes, and went in, planting a firm yet soft kiss to the side of his throat.

Mickey’s jaw went slack and Ian moved his hands under the shirt to finally, _finally_ , have some skin on skin contact. He mouthed at the juncture of Mickey’s neck and shoulder, occasionally letting his tongue peek out to wet the area, leaving traces of _him_ on the sensitive flesh.

There was no stopping him now. Pigs would have to fly before he would ever give this feeling up, and even then he still wouldn’t be willing to lose this. His lips moving up and down the column of his throat, fingertips pressing into the juts of his hips to pull his ass back against his straining erection, Mickey’s head falling back onto Ian’s shoulder, eyes shut, with breathy whimpers dripping from his parted mouth.

His senses were on overload and it was the most exhilarating thing Ian thought he had ever experienced. And he saved lives for a living, for fuck’s sake. The scent of lingering perfume, the salty taste of his sweat, the sound of his high-pitched reactions transitioning to needy groans, all driving him absolutely fucking insane, but the sight he saw as he cracked his lids open for only a moment was the cherry on top: a bulge covered by his grey shorts that were once full-length sweats being trapped between Mickey and the cabinets.

Ian continued on his path, brushing Mickey’s shirt to the side and leaning forward to reach his collarbone to leave a nice, rosy mark for him to see later. He let his hands roam freely, going from his belly to underneath the waistband of his pants, but forced himself from going any further. His own issue down there wasn’t exactly invisible, and he knew Mickey could tell, “You feel it?” Another whine slipped out, along with an unhurried nod of his head, “It’s all ‘cause of you,” he nosed at Mickey’s ear, placing a single kiss to the pulse point behind it, “all _for_ you.” Knuckles were fading from pink to white, gripping the counter with every ounce of strength he had, listening to the surreal, sensual words being murmured into his skin, “I want you so bad, I can't take it anymore.”

It was like all the air had escaped from his lungs, been kissed until he was dizzy and couldn’t think clearly. He was torn about what to do: grind back onto what felt like The Dream Cock, rock forward to alleviate the pressure building up between his own legs, or do the logical, responsible thing and tap out before it went too far. Hell, it had already gone too far, but it he couldn’t find any part of him that wanted it to stop.

It needed to, though. He knew wasn’t ready and would regret letting anything more than this happen, he just needed to find the inner willpower to put an unfortunate end to it. Chest to back, he took one hand off the counter and covered Ian’s with it, preventing him from dipping too deep into his underwear. He was _everywhere_ , completely infecting Mickey with his entire being, causing him to choke out a weak, pathetic, stuttered, “I can’t.”

“You can,” Ian linked their fingers together and clenched tightly, kissing beneath his hairline to switch to the other side, beginning a whole new collection of marks and bruises, “you just did.”

That was true. He was the one who started this and got both of them all riled up, but this wasn’t the time. There was no denying the electrifying chemistry they had, filling them with an overwhelming amount of ecstasy that couldn’t be contained, but still, it wasn’t the right time, “I want to, _fuck_ ,” Ian sucked _hard_ and ran his tongue over the red patch, “trust me, but not now.” An extended moan poured from between opened lips, the noise even making him reconsider his own stance on the topic, “Ian, I’m not ready, you gotta stop.”

Those four little letters made him come… to a screeching halt. He detached his mouth from Mickey’s throat and rested his forehead on his shoulder, hand going limp, fingers falling apart. Labored breathing was becoming steady, warm bodies turning uncomfortably cold, the distance between them already returning. Ian nuzzled into the fabric of his shirt, almost to save some of his smell on his own skin, and stepped away, “I’m gonna go.”

“No,” Mickey turned around and trailed behind as Ian slung his backpack on and readjusted himself from the outside, “please don’t go, I don’t want you to- please, please don’t leave.”

“Mickey, what is this?” he let his arms fall with an irritated look plastered across his face. The other man didn’t even have to say anything for him to clarify, “This,” he moved his hand back and forth between the two of them, “you and me, what the fuck is it?”

The inevitable had arrived, and it felt like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over his head. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what the right answer was or what words would be able to describe his position the best, “What do you mean?”

Ian laughed in disbelief, “You give me lap dances, invite me to basically live here on the weekends, _kiss_ me, then act like there’s nothing there.” Mickey had fucked everything up, formed a tornado without even realizing it, “And I like you,” his voice went soft, like what he was saying was too fragile to say forcefully, “a lot, but I don’t know how it’s possible to like someone this much and no nothing about them. It’s a mind-fuck and I’m sick of tiptoeing around it.”

“You know me-”

“Not really,” he cut Mickey off, “not like you know me.” Talking like this made him feel nauseous, the knots in his stomach knotting themselves together. Conflict, especially with the one who made him feel safe and accepted, was enough to make him puke, “I know your name, only because I saw it on your desk. I know your address, I know where you work, and that’s about it.” He saw the wheels working inside Mickey’s eyes, already developing a tinge of guilt for making him feel anything other than adored, “I don’t know your phone number, I don’t know your favorite color, I don’t know how you got this,” he spread his arms and dropped them again, “I don’t know how or why you became a drag queen, I don’t know if you have a family. I had to find out it was your birthday at the same time as a bunch of strangers because you don’t tell me anything, I don’t get it.”

There was a tug-of-war going on in Mickey’s mind, one side pulling him to spill the beans and just get it over with, the other telling him to close himself off, get defensive and not let anything slip out. He had to be diligent with his response, careful not to say too much, but enough to get Ian off his case, “You don’t wanna know about me, man.”

“Oh, I don’t?” he tested, tone sarcastic, “Then why are we talking about this right now?” Ian’s brain was begging him to give it up and stop being such an entitled asshole, but they were going on six months of this game and if he didn’t speak his truth now, he never would, “You get to decide how much of your life you let me be a part of, but you don’t get to decide what I want to know.”

“Ian,” Mickey shook his head and hung it low, “I’m telling you right now, you don’t wanna know about my past. I’ll tell you that my favorite color is a tie between pink, white and red, my favorite food is anything made out of potatoes, my least favorite foods are mushrooms and shrimp. But no, I will not tell you about how I got here.”

“See, that’s what bugs me,” he let his backpack plummet to the floor, figuring this was far from over, “I told you my shit, I told you about my fucked up family, how I got my bipolar from my drug addict of a mom, and yet you still won't let me in.” How faint those last three words were made Mickey experience the exact same guilt Ian was, “That’s all I’m asking, just let me in.”

He swallowed hard and swayed on his feet, arms crossed over his chest like he always did when he began to feel attacked, “I could tell you shit that would make you walk out that fuckin’ door and never wanna see me again, is that what you want?” Bending forward slightly, he made eye contact, firm, insistent contact, “Hm? Is it? You wanna fuck whatever this is up for good?”

“Is that what you think of me?” Ian moved to sit on the couch, defeated, “Who the actual fuck am _I_ to judge _you_ for your problems? Me, the mentally ill pill-head loser who used to strip and suck guys off in alleys for drugs?” The older man’s expression melted, no longer feeling like his issues where somehow worse than Ian’s, “Mick, unless you’re like, an undercover Dexter kinda serial killer, I’m not gonna leave.”

That got him smiling, an instant flip from where he thought this conversation was originally going. He walked past the coffee table and sat crisscross applesauce in the corner of the sectional, covered his lap with a blanket and folded his hands, “You’re gonna have to give me a prompt, man, I don’t know where to start.” Ian twisted himself around and copied Mickey’s position, “And you can't blame me if you end up disgusted with me ‘cause you wanted this,” he pointed at Ian, brows raised, “remember that.”

“Just start from the beginning,” he reached out to push the power button on the remote, needing this moment to be just between the two of them, “your parents, who you are, like I did.”

He had to do this, not only because he feared Ian leaving, but he wanted all of this off his chest. It had settled like concrete over his heart after years of suppressing it, locking himself and his roots away from everyone who dared to come near it. But he trusted Ian, more than he had ever trusted anyone before and although the thought of burdening him with all of his trauma with terrifying, deep down he knew it would be okay.

“Uh,” he rested his head back against the couch and shifted his hips, getting comfortable for what was bound to be a journey, “my dad’s name is Terry, mom’s name is Molly. She met him at a bar when she was twenty-one, he was in his mid-forties, and she fucked him for whatever reason, still don’t know why.” Both cats jumped up and each crawled into a lap, searching for affection, “She got pregnant with me, but couldn’t afford to raise me on her own, so she tracked him down and from that moment on, he hated me.”

“He hated my mom too, but he fuckin’ _hated_ me, like… _hated_ , hated. And she didn’t like me too much either, always resented me for ruining her life, trapping her with a man she didn’t wanna be with,” Ian could already feel his stomach sinking, unsure if he really wanted to go through with this. “He used to tell me that she never wanted me to begin with, wanted an abortion, but he couldn’t afford it either, so they had to ‘figure out how to deal with me,’” he was surprisingly calm about everything, keeping his breathing leveled and stable, “but I don’t think I ever heard either of them tell me they loved me.”

“Loved my siblings, though,” this was sketchy territory, his choice of words had to be precise. “Dad took my older brother everywhere with him, let him do whatever he wanted, bought him shit even if it meant we’d be late on bills,” the brother wasn’t the problem, this was simple, “but I never understood why? ‘Cause he’s so fucking stupid, not like ‘haha, you’re stupid,’ I mean dumber than a box of rocks stupid. Not mentally disabled or challenged or anything, just _so_ goddamn stupid.”

“But he loved him, probably ‘cause he had a different mom and wasn’t a mouth he was forced to feed. Then two years after she had me, she had my sister,” _stay chill_ , “who was my mom’s little princess, ya know? So my brother had my dad, sister had my mom, and where did that leave Mickey?” he acted animated, trying to make a joke out of a shitty part of his life, “Right in the middle, but I was cool with it. I mean, I spent a lot of time alone, which I guess is why I never really thought about needing someone else’s company until recently,” it felt refreshing to not have to worry about sentimental things slipping anymore, he could be as cheesy as he wanted without any concern, “but I was staying home by myself at like, three-years-old.”

“I call bullshit on that one.”

“It’s true,” his brows shot up and his movement startled Newman, “mom used to take my sister to work with her when she was a baby, dad was always gone with my brother. I swear to God, I’ve been taking care of myself since I could talk.” He pet the cat back to sleep, watching Ian do the same with Cosmo, “But I liked it, I liked being alone and the house being quiet. Think of it this way: I was the boy version of Matilda. I read, I was smart, parents didn’t give a shit about me, we were both closeted gay kids...”

“I don’t know if that’s supposed to be a pun about The Chokey or if you’re actually saying Matilda was a lesbian.”

“Please, her and Lavender? Come on,” he gave a skeptical look to Ian like, _get real, she totally was_ , “but that’s not the point. Anyway-”

“Wait,” Ian interrupted, “what were their names?”

 _Shit_. It was an innocent question, something that should’ve been the easiest part of this entire story, but the answer held what would cause the most commotion in their isolated world. He couldn’t stall, couldn’t put it off any longer, “My brother’s name’s Iggy,” _painless_ , “but I, uh… I can't tell you my sister’s name.”

Ian’s face was blank, staring at him as if he was joking, “Are you serious?” Mickey nodded and opened his mouth to continue, trying to bypass the subject, but failing miserably, “No, no, no, why not? Your sister’s name, what could I possibly do with that?” he stopped petting Cosmo, getting a bit frustrated with how quickly the stream of actually valuable information stopped flowing, “Your address, sure. Where you work, no problem. But your sister’s name is the one you can't tell me.”

“I just can’t.”

“Why, though? It’s not like a know her, what the fuck’s the big deal?”

He averted his eyes to the cat sleeping in his lap, absolutely refusing to make contact with Ian’s. He sucked in his bottom lip and prayed to whoever might be looking over him to make this go away, make it pass smoothly without another argument or sense of unsteadiness between them, but nothing could ever be that uncomplicated.

“Mickey…”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: homophobic language (quotes from terry)

You could hear a pin drop in that moment of complete and utter silence. Piece by piece, Ian was putting everything together, using Mickey’s body language as some kind of key to the finding the full truth. All of what he was thinking back to could’ve been considered circumstantial, just Mandy being overdramatic and assumptive, but no longer did the birthdays being on the same day feel coincidental.

Weeks on end of her saying she felt like she knew Anna, Mickey asking her about him while he was gone, asking _him_ about _her_ in the slyest ways possible. The hair, the eyes, the casual use of expletives in the same angry but not angry tone. It made sense, yet made no sense whatsoever.

“Tell me her name,” Ian watched as Mickey began closing himself off, ignoring the demand even if it was staring him right in the face, _literally_. He gave an extended pause, letting him have some time to choose his words wisely, but nothing was spoken, “Mickey, tell me her name.”

He scratched the tip of his nose with the blunt nail on his thumb and pinched the bridge, wanting this whole conversation to go away, wishing it had never started to begin with. But there was no avoiding it now, and he had to rip it off like a Band-Aid, let it out in one swift motion, “Mandy.”

“Nah,” Ian laughed immediately after the answer he already knew, gently moving Cosmo off his legs so he could stand up, “nah, you’re fuckin’ with me.” He chuckled as he walked to the fridge, pulling the door open to get a water to wash away the sugar on his teeth, “That’s not funny, man, just tell me.”

Mickey looked at him with sorrow-filled eyes, saying everything he needed to with only his expressions. He went back to petting Newman, deciding it was better for Ian to accept it on his own terms than for him to keep adding fuel to the fire. The younger man returned to his seat, elbows on his knees with the bottle hanging loose in his hands from the neck, waiting no-so-patiently for Mickey to backpedal and take back what he said, “Tell me you’re fuckin’ with me,” his tone hardened, not wanting to come to terms with this unfortunate reality, “please tell me she’s not your sister.”

“She is,” it came out pitifully, weak and delicate, “I’m sorry.”

Nervously, he put the bottle on a coaster, got up again and started pacing, chewing on the inside corner of his bottom lip. He couldn’t focus on one thing, brain moving a mile a minute, “You better not be lying.” Mickey shook his head and assured him he wasn’t, “You knew this whole time and didn’t say anything? Does she know?”

“Know what?”

“Know that…” he hesitated, “you’re Anna or that Anna’s you or whatever-the-fuck.” Cosmo sensed some anxiety, coming to his feet to rub against his ankles soothingly, covering his jeans with fur, “Does she? Have you both been lying?”

“I don’t think so, but I don’t know,” honesty was the best policy now and there was no reason not to be, “I haven’t talked to her in a really long time.”

Ian heard that and remembered what Mandy had said only a few hours ago, figuring there was no way he wasn’t being truthful. He wouldn’t benefit from making this shit up, wouldn’t gain anything from creating falsehoods or joking about this, “You talked to her when I was gone, she told me.”

“Yeah, in drag,” he countered, “but she couldn’t even hear my voice.” Yawning, he blocked his open mouth with a fist and scooted Newman off of him, “She hasn’t seen me out of drag in years, man. You know her better than I do, probably have a better idea of if she knows or not.”

“How long?” Mickey looked at him confused, standing in the middle of the living room, “How many years? I mean, she said the same thing tonight, but I didn’t think anything of it.”

Mickey shrugged his shoulders and rose from the couch, sluggishly moving toward him, “It’ll be… thirteen? In December.” He grabbed the dirty dishes off the coffee table, now dried with frosting and cake crumbs, and took them to the sink, “Can we talk about this shit in the morning, please?” Running water filled the quiet house as he scrubbed the plates clean, stuck them in the washer and wiped his hands on a towel, “I promise I’ll tell you everything tomorrow, I just gotta sleep. Been up for almost twenty-four hours.”

“ _Thirteen_?” he realized he’d been yawning as well, but was too hyped to notice. Mickey went back to fold their blankets and rearrange the pillows, then sighed and raised his brows to Ian, non-verbally asking again, “Yeah, I guess.”

“‘Kay,” this was the awkward part, the one that he caused and was fully responsible for, “I’ll see you in the morning.” Ian nodded, picked his backpack off the floor and turned off the lights, following Mickey down the hall and up the stairs with the cats climbing two steps at a time.

What were they supposed to do? What were their updated boundaries after what had happened? Were they supposed to act like nothing was different, or was everything different? They reached the top and uncomfortably waved to go in opposite directions, but when Mickey turned to walk away, Ian stopped him. “Hold on, c’mere,” forgetting about what he had just learned, he headed toward the shorter man and with both palms on his throat, thumbs on his jawline, he tilted his head up and melted into another mind-numbing, world-altering kiss.

Mickey instinctually gripped onto his hips, scrunching the fabric of his shirt between his fingers. He stumbled, mouth pushing and pulling against Ian’s like a wave, and took Ian with him, staggering backward to his room. Hands were cupped around the nape of his neck to control the kiss, soft, gentle sounds were swirled together to the point where neither knew who was making what noise, but Mickey shoved him away before they got to the door. “Alright, alright,” he warned with a smile as Ian latched his lips to the fresh artwork he created just minutes prior and licked a stripe over the pink marks, savoring whatever he could get from him, “this gonna be a thing now?”

Ian moved back a bit to admire what he’d done, “If you want it to be. I’ll see you in the morning,” he adjusted his backpack, pills jostling around, and left for the guest bedroom, _his_ bedroom. Mickey stayed there for a minute, half-hard and breathless, with cats swarming at his feet wanting breakfast before it was even time.

He washed his face of any leftover makeup, brushed his teeth, plugged his phone in, and got into bed. With everything turned off, he could hear the T.V in Ian’s room playing, could hear footsteps coming down the hallway and the bathroom door open and shut. He needed to tug one out, but it was too late (early?) and he was exhausted, but the warm, bubbly feeling in the pit of his stomach wouldn’t go away, no matter how many times he changed positions or tried to count sheep.

Every time his eyes were closed, he thought about the kiss, thought about Ian sucking on his throat with that giant cock thrusting against him. He kept his arms flat at his sides, willing his blood to turn the fuck around and go back to his brain without any assistance, but to no avail. Even after all this time, he still thought prayer might work for him: not. He gave in and started palming himself, hips bucking to increase the contact, and reached down into his underwear to swipe a dry finger over his hole.

Had Ian turned his godforsaken T.V off, or just down a smidge, they would’ve been able to hear each other partaking in the exact same activity, both thinking about the man only a wall away.

Mickey got up to feed the cats an hour or two after his stifled orgasm had put him to rest; face buried in a pillow to muffle his moans, ass in the air, stubby fingers trying their best to hit his spot. His hated his inability to make a mess without the immediate need to fix what he saw as a problem, and wished he could just forget about the fact that there was a come stain drying into his sheets. He did when he fell asleep on top of it, but when he woke up to meowing and scratching on the door with his own crusty release on his stomach, he felt nothing short of nasty; anyone would.

Half-asleep, he changed the bedding, started a load of laundry, cleaned the embarrassment off his skin, and went right back to sleep until the sun had almost risen to its highest point.

The smell of bacon had traveled upstairs, filling his unconscious senses with a signal to wake the fuck up and get moving. He threw on a fresh pair of sweats and an old t-shirt, figuring he’d get ready for real a little later; there was no point in getting all dressed up when he knew he was about to relive the worst years of his life.

He followed his nose as the scent got stronger, walked into the kitchen and his sleepy, smiling face instantly faded into one of pure distress, “Oh my God, what are you doing…” There were pans scattered across the stove, paper towels crumped all over the counter, an egg carton open and warming when it should’ve been in the fridge.

“Shit,” Ian turned around with a spatula in hand, “it was supposed to be a surprise.” Mickey tentatively walked in and picked up whatever he could confidently identify as garbage, “I’m making breakfast so we could talk, didn’t feel like going out, anyway.” He used some tongs to peel the bacon from the pan and place it in yet another paper towel to soak up the grease, “I was gonna bring it to you in bed as a late birthday gift, but whatever.”

“No, it’s okay,” his voice probably sounded way higher than usual, trying his hardest to sound supportive and appreciative instead of like his whole world was crumbling from how chaotic this section of his house looked. He bumped Ian out of the way to toss that shit into the trash, returned the eggs to the fridge, and sopped up some dribbles of milk with, again, an already dirty paper towel, “You didn’t have to do all this, man.” _Really_ didn’t have to.

“I also was gonna make pancakes ‘cause I remember that’s what you got at the diner that one time,” he scooped two servings of eggs onto each plate, “but you don’t have anything to make them with, so we got eggs, bacon, some toast, and fruit ‘cause you’re a health freak.” Pancakes. Flour. Dust. Everywhere. Thank God this was all he could come up with. “Here, sit down,” he handed Mickey his meal and with a hand on the small of his back, pushed him toward the table.

There was a bowl of fresh watermelon, containers of blackberries and strawberries, that brand new jar of jelly they bought last night, and two glasses filled to the brim with orange juice. He sat and politely waited for Ian to join, foot tapping against the floor anxiously with that mess of a kitchen staring at him from the corner of his eye. As soon as Ian came to eat, he stood up, “You go ahead, I’m gonna clean this up real quick.”

“What? No, come on,” he turned around to see Mickey already rinsing the pan out with hot water, dissolving the hardening bacon fat, “you eat,” he got up and stole the pan from his grip. “This is your birthday breakfast, I got it.”

“It’s not even my birthday anymore.”

“I don’t care, sit down and eat.”

Mickey rolled his eyes and hesitantly let Ian take over. He sat back down and ate his eggs, feeling stupid and immature to need the dishes to be done for him to feel at least a drop of normality. The bare minimum was all Ian did, making it very apparent that the homeowner would have to retrace his steps and fix whatever he did wrong, and finally took his seat again.

“Sorry about that,” Mickey tore a bite of bacon off between his teeth and chewed on the perfectly cooked meat, “it’s fuckin’ dumb, I know.”

“Why does everything always have to be clean?” he asked harmlessly, spreading jelly on his now-cold toast, “Not that I’m judging or anything, but this place has like, no clutter, ya know?”

“That’ll come later in the story,” juice was sipped and chunks of watermelon were plopped into his mouth, “that’s if you still wanna hear it all.”

Ian nodded, but didn’t push for it to be explained right away. He knew he did way too much of that last night and felt a bit bad about it, but was happy with the current outcome. Being able to act freely around Mickey was like being released from prison after twenty years and wanting to explore all the new things that were previously out of reach.

The situation with Mandy, however, he still felt weird about. It was hard to wrap his head around how the guy he was slowly but surely falling in love with was related to one of his two best friends; the other being that same guy. It was some kind of bizarre love triangle and he was unsure of how things would change once she found out.

They ate in peace and discussed the dreams they had, both disregarding the ones that included one another. Ian took it upon himself to clear the table, ordering Mickey to go chill on the couch and wait for him. He tried to prepare himself for what he was about to be told, imagining the worst case scenario and figuring out how he would react or deal with this perfect human not being so perfect anymore.

“Okay,” he dried his hands on his pants and got comfortable on the couch under a blanket again during the final month of summer, appreciating the power of a working air conditioner, “where did we end things?”

“Mandy.”

“Right,” hearing her name come out of Mickey’s mouth was something he’d probably never get used to, “that’s still so fuckin’ weird. I mean, I thought about the things she’s said to me about you – Anna – and it makes sense, but it’s still hard to believe you’re her _brother_ and she’s _your_ sister.”

“What do you mean?” Mickey snapped his fingers to call the cats over, “What did she say about me?”

Ian got Newman this time, Mickey Cosmo, letting usually the standoffish animal lick his fingers, “Every time you take her money she says she thinks she knows you and that she thinks she’s met you before,” he slouched down to make his chest horizontal, giving Newman a place to rest, “and last night she was freakin’ out ‘cause she said it was her brother’s birthday too, but she didn’t know if he was alive or not, so I told her not to worry about it. Don’t know how I didn’t put two and two together, especially ‘cause you guys look so much alike, I’m fuckin’ stupid. She’s gonna be pissed when she finds out, though.”

“She’s not gonna find out,” Mickey quipped back, tone nothing but serious and firm, “‘cause you’re not gonna tell her shit about this or us, you hear me?”

“You expect me to lie to her?”

“Yes, I expect you to lie to her,” he reiterated. “She doesn’t need to know about any of this, just don’t bring it up. If you really wanna tell her, I’ll have you both blacklisted from the club and you’ll never see me again.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, what the fuck?” Ian stalled his hand in the middle of Newman’s back, startled by the sudden escalation, “I won't tell her, but why are you so scared for her to know? Don’t you wanna see her, reconnect after all this time? And why have you guys been apart for so long?”

“She already hates me enough and would hate me even more if she knew I’ve seen her every week for almost four years and haven’t said jack shit to her,” he calmed slightly, back muscles relaxing and allowing him to become flush with the couch, “and I’ll tell you if you’d let me finish explaining my whole goddamn life to you. Also, you forced that shit about her outta me and it’s kinda unfair t-”

“Alright, I get it,” Ian interjected, “just keep going.”

“Let’s see, dad hates me, mom hates me, Mandy hates me, Iggy never gave a shit about me,” he tilted his head to stare up at his chandelier, unintentionally reminding himself of how far he’d come and to not worry about how awful his life used to be, “uh… You gotta help me again, give me somewhere to start.”

Ian flipped through a few ideas and settled on, “Did they know you were gay?”

“Fuck, yeah,” Mickey huffed a laugh and accidentally scared Cosmo, “I mean, that’s a huge reason why my dad wanted nothing to do with me. Mom knew too, but she didn’t care as much. I just kept it to myself, never told them or felt like I had to tell them, not that I would’ve, anyway, but still.”

“I remember when I was… I dunno, like five, maybe? Dad was having a good day, a _rare_ good day, and we all went to the Goodwill to get something before school started, and there was this windbreaker… Mind you, this was the mid-90s, so the clothes there were from the 80s, right? It was one of those ‘vintage’ jackets that people are starting to wear again, thinkin’ they’re cool or whatever, you know what I mean?” Ian nodded, “Granted, I found it in the girl’s section where three-year-old Mandy was picking out what she wanted, but it was pink and blue and purple and I wanted that shit _so_ bad, man, you have no idea. I went up to my mom and was so excited about it, but my dad yanked it outta my hand so fuckin’ hard, I thought he broke my wrist. He hung it back up and said,” he hardened his face and pointed a finger out to impersonate the man scolding him, “‘Pink’s for fucking _faggots_ ,’” he strengthened that one word, emphasizing the impact.

“And I was just a kid, I didn’t know what a faggot was, but long story short, I didn’t get the jacket,” he smiled, finding this almost therapeutic. “But as I got older and heard my uncles or cousins talk about how someone tried to fuck them in jail and how they’d shank ‘em or whatever to ‘teach that faggot not to rape a Milkovich,’ I kinda got the hint.”

“Was never ashamed of myself, though,” he shook his head and gave Cosmo’s back a single stroke, getting a whine in return. “Probably should’ve been, but I knew I liked guys and that’s just how it was. Used to thirst over my brother’s friends all the time, ‘cause when I was hitting puberty they were all in their early twenties and… anyway, you get it.”

“I was so nasty as a kid, I hate thinking about how fuckin’ _gross_ I was,” Newman stretched his paws up by Ian’s face, utterly content with that position, “‘cause my dad used to monitor how much I ate and when I got to shower, so I was dirty as all hell and weighed next to nothing.”

“Wait, what?”

“Yeah, man, he only let me eat at dinner and shower once a week,” Ian’s expression was one of pure disgust, “and even then, he timed it. Got five minutes to wash off a week’s worth of dirt. That started when I was _really_ young, like seven, I think? The food thing was ‘cause my mom bought this expensive ass spread of meat and cheese for some poker party dad was having, and I ate about half of it, but I didn’t know what it was for, I just thought she got it for us to have, ya know? He caught me with a mouthful of cheddar and salami and made me spit it out, slapped me across the face and told me I was only gonna eat when he told me I could.”

“Jesus, fuck.”

“I just blew him off for a while, ate whatever I wanted, but then he’d catch me again… and again… and again… and the beat-downs got worse and worse, so I gave up,” this was making Ian’s life seem like a cakewalk. “The shower rule came after I asked him for some money to buy a new pair of pants ‘cause mine had a bunch of stains on them and he said no, so I threw a just a little bit of a temper tantrum… just a little bit,” he brought his thumb and index finger about an inch apart from each other, squinting one eye. “I filled the bathtub up with hot water and got in it with every item of clothing I had as some kind of protest against me never having clean clothes, I guess? I don’t know what I was thinking, but he pulled me out and punched me in the stomach and said I had to pay the next water bill and, again, I’d only shower when he said I could.”

“That’s a good segue, though,” he paused to give his throat a break. “All my clothes were Iggy’s hand-me-downs, literally every single thing I had used to be his. And like I said, he’s way older than me… So by the time I was seven, he was seventeen, and the clothes he wore at that age had been sitting up the attic for ten fucking years and smelled like actual shit, moldy with holes all over. When I got older, everything was covered in beer and piss marks and still smelled like cigarettes and, _fuck_ , it was sickening. Everything I wore was his, down to his shit-stained underwear. That’s a huge part of why my house is like this, ‘cause I told myself when I got outta there, when I had money, I’d never let myself or my house look like how that one did, just full of clutter and garbage and roaches and ashtrays. I know I take it to the extreme, but even like, a shirt on the ground or a cup left on the table makes my skin crawl ‘cause it sends me back to that hellhole,” Ian understood, involuntarily nodded and decided he would never again question why everything had to be put in its place or why he found his bed made last night with all his garbage thrown away.

“Anyway, nothing fit me ‘cause I was so skinny from not eating, it all was like, five sizes too big and every morning when I got ready for school I was basically begging to get beat up. People made fun of me all the time like, I was like the stereotypical image of what you’d imagine a school shooter to be like… I was white, never talked to anyone, never participated in class, wore all black, baggy clothes with pictures of skulls and guns on them,” they both laughed at the pretty accurate generalization, “and it sucked ‘cause I didn’t wanna be like that. I mean, have you seen me? I have a fuckin’ _great_ sense of style, but never got to show it,” he pointed to his plain t-shirt, mocking himself for the sake of lightening the mood.

“Did you really get beat up, though?”

“Oh, yeah. Mainly by the guys on the football team,” Ian sent him a confused look, wondering where the hell that came from. “My dad sign- no, my dad had _my_ _mom_ sign me up for little league when I was ten. It was okay, didn’t play much, just sat on the bench for the most part. But the shittiest part was getting dirty, ‘cause I knew I wouldn’t be able to get fully clean until I got to shower on Sunday. We had practice three times a week and games on Saturday, never once did I get to go home and wash myself and my uniform like every other kid on that team and they all knew it, never included me in anything.”

“He had her sign me up for football when I was twelve and that was the fuckin’ _worst_. I remember calling my mom after school, crying, _begging_ her to pick me up and let me skip practice, but she never did. ‘Cause football season is in fall and winter, so we’re out there playing this rough, contact sport in the goddamn snow, and for what? What did I get out of it? The whole reason he wanted me to play was so I could ‘man up,’ but sticking me on a team with a bunch of boys to turn me straight wasn’t really his brightest idea. And to sound as not creepy as possible, I was a twelve-year-old boy in a locker room with a bunch of other twelve-year-old boys and… you know,” Ian agreed. “I either stared too much and it was suspicious, or I didn’t stare enough and it was suspicious.”

“Didn’t matter, though. The whole team caught on eventually and started harassing me whenever we were changing, accusing me of wanting to fuck them and shit. Which was real brave of them to think they met my standards, but that’s beside the point,” that subtle compliment got a smile out of Ian. “But you also gotta remember that I still wasn’t eating and I had to play these sports I didn’t wanna play without anything to burn off. I had no energy ‘cause I was literally malnourished, was getting pounded on the field every day – not in the good way – with no muscle to fight back with, and still trying to do well in school. I was falling asleep in class all the time, one of my teachers ending up coming to my house to see if everything was okay – again, Matilda – and my dad bullshitted his way through that conversation, closed the door and used some brass knuckles on my lips. ‘Cause making more marks would make the teachers less concerned, apparently.”

“No offense, but I really wanna beat the shit outta him.”

“That makes two of us. But I’m getting ahead of myself, we gotta go back a year to when I was eleven. My mom used to give all her money to dad, whatever she made went into his pocket, but she’d hide some of her tips and save up to take Mandy shopping. It was always Mandy, never me, no matter how many times I asked her. She didn’t see the problem with the shit I had, just told me to wash ‘em again and stop whining. Every couple weeks, they’d go to the store and she’d get new clothes or shoes or jewelry, eventually sweet-talked her way into getting makeup. She came home one day and she’d gotten this red and black, plaid, flannel shirt… And when I tell you I wanted that goddamn shirt about as bad as I wanted that windbreaker…” he shook his head with closed eyes and blew a stream of air out of puffed cheeks. “‘Cause it was masculine enough I thought I might be able to get away with wearing it, maybe my dad wouldn’t notice. But it was for girls, so it was fitted and cut to go with the shape of your body, and since I was so skinny I knew it would fit me.”

“She saw me staring at it and asked if I wanted to wear it, but I said no and acted like I wasn’t jealous, even though I was. Then when I was home alone, I think it was the next day, I went into her room and put it on and oh my _God_ , I felt like a million bucks. I was just as small as Mandy, if not smaller, so it fit like a fuckin’ glove, and for the first time ever I looked in the mirror and felt cute as hell. It sounds so stupid, but I felt so good about myself just ‘cause it fit me right and smelled good and still had the tags on it and it was _new_ and I never wanted to take it off. But she came home and saw me before I could take it off, and I got all defensive and was like, ‘Don’t tell dad, it’s not what it looks like.’ She was so cool about it, though. Told me I could keep it if I wanted and that’s where the whole thing started.”

Ian’s heart warmed when he saw a faint smile crack on Mickey’s face, “The next three years were about the only good ones I ever had in that house. But, side note, I gotta make it clear that I never wore her clothes for like, sexual reasons.” He saw Ian begin to assure him that wasn’t what he thought, but Mickey cut in, “I know you probably weren't thinking that, but I also know it can get misconstrued or whatever. Anyway, she and I started hanging out a lot more, she stopped going shopping with mom to spend time with me. Which was so weird ‘cause no one ever wanted to do that before, but it was like a bonding thing, ya know? She would pick out outfits for me to wear and dress me up like a doll, which again, I know sounds weird cos I’m her older brother, but it was innocent shit, I swear.”

“We’d do it like every day after school, just chill in her room with the door locked, listening to music and talking about shit. I loved it, she turned into my best friend within a matter of weeks like, we were never really that close ‘cause I was so depressed and she was just my hyper little sister who thought I was boring. But she brought me outta my shell and let me be myself, even if it was only for an hour in those four walls, it didn’t matter ‘cause she didn’t care. I could talk without worrying about saying the wrong thing, I could let my quote unquote ‘feminine’ mannerisms out without fearing for my fuckin’ life. I don’t know how she was so accepting growing up in that house, but I’m so grateful she was.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Hm?”

“Did you ever think you were trans?”

“No,” he replied quickly with a shake of his head, confident with his answer, but not offended in the least, “it was never like that. It wasn’t like I was a girl trapped in a boy’s body, it was just about how the clothes fit me and how they were new. That’s really all it was, like I probably would’ve felt the same way if they were boy clothes, but that wasn’t an option. I’m not gonna lie and say I didn’t like how they looked or liked how cute I felt in them, but it wasn’t anything more than them being clean and my size.”

“But the clothes turned into makeup when I was thirteen and she was eleven. She got one of those cheap ass kits for kids from Claire’s for her birthday and wanted to use it on me, so I let her. It looked awful,” he laughed and smiled again, “she didn’t know what the fuck she was doing, but it was fun and she was happy doing it and I just wanted her to be happy. If I couldn’t be, I at least wanted her to, but that didn’t last very long. We were sitting on her bed listening to Leave (Get Out) by JoJo, which was all too fitting, but one of us forgot to shut the door all the way ‘cause it was a weekend and we figured no one was gonna come back in the middle of the day. But, uh, he did.”

“As soon as I heard the door open, I tried to wipe everything off my face, but he came in to tell us to turn the music down before I could even find something to use,” Ian saw him become quieter, eyes staring off into space like he wanted to escape his own mind. “He pulled me down onto the floor by my ear, got on top of me and started beating the living shit outta me. Obviously, it wasn’t the first time that happened, but that definitely was the first time I thought I was gonna die. I was lying there trying to cover my face in the beginning, but I was so weak that I just caved and basically went limp, let him do whatever the fuck he needed to do ‘cause I was convinced he was gonna kill me and I was okay with that. Mandy was screaming the whole time, crying and begging him to get off me, even jumped on his back, but she was only a kid, she couldn’t do anything. I didn’t want her to see me die, but I couldn’t really do anything either,” Ian’s lips were parted, breathing slowed, trying to let all of this soak in.

“He just kept punching me over and over and over and over again, called me every homophobic slur you could think of with each blow, didn’t even care that I was his kid or that his daughter was watching him kill her brother. I think he was just waiting for me to slip up enough for him to catch me so he could finally do what he waited fourteen years to do. But there was a huge puddle of blood,” he held up both hands to give a rough estimate, “around my head on her floor. There’s probably still a stain in the carpet, Lord knows no one in that house was gonna clean it. Anyway, he eventually stood up and I thought it was over, but then a steel toed boot got rammed into my stomach a couple times until I started coughing up blood. And that was the last time Mandy saw me.”

“Mick…”

“You want me to stop? You wanted to hear it, man, I told you it wasn’t sunshine and rainbows,” Ian shook his head. “He picked me up by the back of my shirt, walked to the front door, literally threw me onto the porch, said, and I quote, ‘There’s no room for faggots in my house,’ and locked me out,” both men could feel a burn developing in the back of their throats, but continued swallowing to prevent any tears from forming. “I sat against the door to wait for the bleeding to stop and could hear Mandy crying on the other side, asking him to let me back in but he just told her to shut the fuck up. It was the middle of December, there was snow everywhere and I was barefoot with no jacket or anything. I kept thinking maybe he’ll change his mind or… I don’t know, but I was freezing and sore and I just stuck it out until the sun went down ‘cause I wasn’t about to walk down the streets in daylight looking the way I did.”

“You gotta get the full visual, though,” he sounded slightly more lighthearted, like that was the big hurdle and now they were in the home stretch, “let’s start from the bottom up. Again, I was barefoot. I was wearing Mandy’s baby pink, jean mini skirt, but my underwear were so big on me that they almost reached my knees. They were longer than the skirt and looked so fuckin’ embarrassing. I had a Mötley Crüe tour t-shirt on, covered in holes, barely enough fabric left to even count as a shirt, then my face and hair. Everything was bloody, I even remember some on my toes, but my face was a nightmare. Nose was bent sideways, lost two teeth, I got those fixed as soon as I could afford it, but still. Have you ever seen Gotham?”

“Uh, I think I’ve seen in online, but never watched it.”

“There’s this guy named Jerome who got his face cut off or whatever, the point is that his entire face was red and bloody, that’s what I looked like; like a goddamn monster. But then you gotta remember I had makeup on too, so my eyes were puffy and black from the eyeliner she put on me, I looked like fuckin’ panda. There was blue eyeshadow that mixed with the blood so it turned purple. My hot pink lipstick was smudged from ear to ear, all down my chin and literally in my mouth. It was a mess.”

“What’d you do after?”

“Waited a couple hours and then walked to see my mom, even though I could barely feel my body with how cold it was, but that was better than feeling my face throb. She worked at a hair salon, so all the girls tried to clean me up, one gave me sweats from her gym bag. Mom was super distant, though, like she didn’t wanna deal with it; I could tell she thought it was all my fault just by how irritated she was. She asked what happened and I told her and I kinda expected that to be the final straw, like… she’d go home when he wasn’t there, pack all our shit and we’d leave, go to her parents or something, but that was the last time I was ever optimistic about anything. She went into the back to get her purse, handed me whatever cash she had in her wallet – I believe it was seventeen dollars and forty-two cents – and said,” his voice got soft, bitter, “‘Keep in touch.’” Ian clenched his jaw and dug what nails he had into his palm, feeling like he needed to take his anger out on something or someone for him being treated this way, “And that’s how I became homeless at fourteen.”

It was somehow worse than Ian expected, like one major bad thing or secret would’ve been more manageable and easy to accept than this constant stream of shit that was his life. He was filled with the desire to track Mickey’s ‘parents’ down and give them a piece of their own medicine. Fathoming how he grew up there was one thing, but then the thought of Mandy being in that same situation kept popping into his head, multiplying his aggravation by two.

He took a brief rest to let his vocal chords reset, and gave himself some time to process what he had just burdened Ian with. Thirteen years of keeping that bottled up had come to an end, and although he assumed he’d be judged and criticized for maybe not putting up enough of a fight like he was supposed to, it was relieving to have someone validate his views on how he was raised. This was difficult to get through, no doubt, but the next part made him sick to his stomach. He couldn’t skip over it, couldn’t ignore it and act like he just snapped his fingers and went from being homeless to owning a home, but boy did he wish he could.

“Wait,” Mickey tilted his eyes up and made contact with Ian’s, “you said that was the last time Mandy saw you. Why would she hate you, then? Why do you think she’d be mad at you?”

“‘Cause I left her there with him.”

“Are you serious?” he cocked his head to the side as best he could with the position he was in, cat still on his chest, “You were a kid, she’s not gonna hold that against you. Yeah, she’ll probably be a little upset that you haven’t talked to her, but not that you couldn’t raise a child when you were a child yourself. She won't be mad, trust me.”

“I should’ve gone back to get her and taken her with me,” he repeated, “but it doesn’t even matter ‘cause I’m not gonna see her and you’re not gonna say anything, we’ve been over this,” Mickey made his stance clear as day without coming off as overpowering, more so just tired from reliving the period of time he never wanted to visit again. “Are we done or…” he hoped to get out of it, but with no luck.

“I still don’t know how you got here,” Ian whirled a finger in the air.

“Alright, well, this is gonna be the part where you get up and leave, so you might wanna get Newman off you,” he ran his hand down Cosmo’s back, purrs vibrating throughout his body, “make things easier, get outta here as fast as you can.” Ian tried to tell him that he still wasn’t going anywhere, but Mickey didn’t even allow a full sentence to be spoken. He hadn’t yet accepted the reality of not having Ian anymore, though he never _had_ him to begin with, but to no longer have someone who enjoyed hanging out with him was about to be like losing Mandy all over again, “I tried to make the money last as long as I could, just bought loaves of bread ‘cause they were cheap and lasted a couple days, slept wherever I could, stole clothes outta dumpsters.”

“I stayed at the library a lot, though. Just sat inside and read ‘cause it was warm, tried to make up for what I was missing at school. I swear I’m not trying to compare everything to Matilda…” Ian barely laughed out loud, finding this man more charming with every word he said. “But eventually the cash was gone and I was starving and cold and I had to do what I had to do to survive, even if I didn’t really want to at the time,” he paused, collecting himself and anticipating the demise of whatever their relationship was. “I started selling myself.”

Ian looked at him blankly, blinking normally with no exceptional reaction or rage as Mickey feared. His eyes narrowed, like he was assuming there was something else to be said, something truly impactful or capable of reversing every positive opinion he had about the man, “Wait, that’s it?”

“What do you mean, ‘that’s it,’ I just told you I was a fuckin’ fourteen-year-old prostitute,” he was confused and secretly elated, his anxieties faded away with each passing second. “I didn’t wanna do it, believe me, but I had no other choice. Didn’t have any relatives I could stay with, wasn’t brave enough to steal cash from strangers,” Ian wasn’t sure if it was normal to fall deeper in love with someone who just admitted to being a sex worker, but he didn’t even care, “hated myself every single day from that point on. Felt so disgusting, like I could never get clean; probably another reason why this place looks the way it does.”

“You really thought I’d stop liking you ‘cause of that?” Mickey shrugged and kept his focus on Cosmo, fingertip tracing over each bump of his spine, “How hypocritical would it be if I was like, ‘Hey, I used to give head for drugs,’ and then judge you for what you had to you? I for real thought you were a murderer or some shit, you made it sound so much worse than it is.”

“It’s bad, man, you don’t gotta baby me or make it out to be a normal part of growin’ up,” he spoke downward, shame still making itself known through the contentment of Ian not being mad. “Fourteen and getting fucked by middle-aged guys just to earn enough money to eat,” he shook his head, wanting to curl up into a ball and fall to the center of the earth, “and have a roof over my head for the night. Most just left me there after ‘cause they had to get back to their wives or whatever, so that was nice.”

Ian asked him to continue, still unaffected by the news, “I did that ‘til I was eighteen. Got in the car with a guy one night and he had a gun on the dashboard, so I jumped the fuck out while he was still driving. That was the breaking point, like I’d been with sketchy guys before that didn’t let me leave the room or were way too clingy and wanted to stay with me the next day, but I don’t fuck with guns, I don’t fuck with anything like that. And I was finally at an age where I could get my shit together, I wasn’t about to be killed by some creep for not letting him go in raw-” he squinted his eyes and violently shook his head, instantly regretting everything, “sorry, that was gross.”

“But after I stopped that, I got my GED; took it all in one day, passed with flying colors even with my fuckin’ eighth grade education,” Ian grinned proudly and clapped with his palms hardly connecting to keep Newman sleeping. “Got a job at Joann’s, as if I couldn’t get any gayer, then enrolled in college with the most financial aid I could get. Didn’t know what I wanted to major in ‘cause I had no skills except math, but I knew I didn’t wanna be a teacher, so accounting was about the only other reasonable option.”

“What about drag, when did you start that?”

“I was twenty-one and had just finished my night classes, and I saw this group of guys that I knew were gay, but I just never talked to them ‘cause I never talked to anybody. And I saw them walk off campus and I followed them ‘cause I didn’t wanna go back to the room I was still renting out at the motel, wanted to say outta there for as long as I could, and they walked to the same club I’m at now. Paid five bucks to get in, and that was the first time I ever saw a drag queen,” with the positive direction his story was headed, his overall demeanor seemed happier, calmer. “And I was like… what the fuck? ‘Cause I was doing that shit _years_ ago, but didn’t know people got paid for it. I don’t remember who it was, but she was up there and the crowd was going crazy over her and then I realized that I could do that too; make money without anyone touching me or talking to me was the ideal job, honestly.”

“That same night I went to CVS and bought the cheapest choices of what I thought I needed to do my makeup. Everything was the wrong shade, my foundation made me look like more of a ghost than I normally do, I thought blush and bronzer were the same thing, it was a mess. But then I went back to my room and just tried to perfect it over and over again, looked up techniques online and educated myself on how to apply everything, what I needed to use or what went right with my skin. It was like, therapeutic or something, just sitting down and drawing on my face made it feel like Mandy was there with me, like I wasn’t as alone as I actually was.”

“A couple months after that, I went to Walmart and got this pink, silk nightgown, and felt so fuckin’ weird buying that in public. But I wore that to the club to talk to the manager, in full-blown amateur drag, and asked if he had any openings and he told me to come back on Tuesday at nine, which is about the worst possible spot you can get. So I went, untucked ‘cause I didn’t know how to do it, and-”

“Untucked?”

“My dick was out.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, I got up there and completely froze, was as stiff as a board, forgot all the lyrics to Call Me Maybe,” Ian started laughing hysterically, wordlessly making fun of him. “It was popular in twenty-twelve, alright? But it was a catastrophe, people in the audience threw their used cups at me, gave me no cash, it was the opposite of everything I thought it would be. I went in thinking I’d be walking outta there rich as hell, pay off my student loans, maybe get my own place, but I was naïve to say the least. I gave drag up for a while after that, just focused on school and work that actually made me money. Graduated at twenty-two and started doing freelance accounting, mainly doing taxes for my coworkers and stuff, just anything for some extra income.”

“This woman I worked with was probably in her late sixties, maybe early seventies, and she’d been retired, but started working part-time again ‘cause she hated being home alone all the time. She was super supportive of me throughout college, was the only person I knew who went to my graduation, got me flowers and a Starbucks gift card, like the _sweetest_ person I’d ever met, the grandma I never had, even the _mom_ I never had. She came up to me one day and told me that her husband worked for the Bears, and as soon as I got what she was trying to say, I was like, ‘No, no, no, no,’ but she told me to be quiet and said I had an interview on Monday.”

“Long story short, I went, they loved me ‘cause who wouldn’t, and I got hired as a junior accountant. And _fuuuuck_ , that pay raise, man. I saved up my checks for a couple months, then finally moved outta the motel and got my own apartment, got a car, could pay my bills and eat without having to choose one over the other.” Newman jumped off Ian, letting him sit up straight for the first time in who knows how long, “Now this is where it gets good, this was the scam of the motherfucking century, you ready for this?”

Ian brushed the fur off his shirt and sat back against the couch, rolled his neck, and nodded, “Alright, so my boss was… You ever seen The Office? Please tell me you’ve seen The Office, if you haven’t we’re gonna have a problem,” he threatened, getting yet another nod as a response. “Okay, thank God. So my boss was Michael’s twin, I swear on everything I have, he was a fuckin’ clone. He was _so_ annoying, never left us alone, was always trying to crack jokes with us and act like he was ‘young and hip’ when he really was just a headache; he drove me up a goddamn wall. I mean, I’ve always been one to work best my myself in silence, but he would come and sit on my desk in my cubical and try to make small talk and I just wanted to beat the shit outta him, but I didn’t wanna get fired, so I didn’t. I know he bugged everyone else too, you could see it on their faces when he’d come out of his office – which is now my office, I’ll get to that – and look at all of us to pick his next victim. Me and the people around me would always snap out fingers like we were clapping at a poetry reading when he’d walk past us.”

“SO,” it came out louder than anticipated, “one night, everyone went home, but I stayed late with him ‘cause I knew he had to finish all the work he put off for weeks. I took off my tie, unbuttoned my shirt a little, used my years of seduction to get him all hot and heavy, and then he fucked me. He was another straight, married father of between three and five kids, still not sure, added to my list.” Ian’s lips were parted, cheeks brought up to form a shocked, impressed smile, “I let it kinda settle for a couple days as part of the plan, ‘cause he wasn’t being subtle about it at all. Like, he was spending _way_ too much time at my desk, but I played up the intimidated, scared, young boy who didn’t wanna lose his job act and made sure people saw it. Then I set up a meeting with _his_ boss, a woman who had made it perfectly clear there was a no tolerance policy for sexual misconduct, and basically told her, ‘I don’t wanna make this sound worse than it is, but James told me that if I didn’t have sex with him, he could get me fired. So I did,’ and she was _mortified_.”

“Jesus Christ, you’re evil.”

“No, that’s the thing. I was the angel,” he smiled and Ian imagined a halo floating above his head, “I was an angel bringing peace to the company ‘cause no one else knew how or even had the balls to try. So literally the next day, he got called into her office and was fired on the spot, and he was fuckin’ _LIVID_. He threw a chair across the room, chucked picture frames of his family at _ME_ , was screaming and yelling, broke a window, and I just kept acting like the angel I was and am. I stood behind one of my coworkers and was fake-shaking, he called me a ‘lying sonofabitch’ and inside I was like, ‘Yeah? I mean, you’re not wrong. I did lie and my parents are a couple of bitches, tell me something I don’t know.’”

“That was on a Friday, so on Monday she brought me into her office again and gave me some bullshit speech about how she’d ‘noticed all my hard work’ and how she ‘appreciated what I brought to the company’ and offered me the senior accountant position,” Ian clapped again, this time slowly, like he was so incredibly amused by the story that was Mickey Milkovich’s life. “I know, I know,” he pretended to bow, “thank you, thank you. But that wasn’t even my goal, like I couldn’t have cared less about getting that job, I just wanted him outta my hair. And I knew people would be mad ‘cause I was only there for about a year, and some of them had been there for _waaay_ longer, but I said yes. And they got over it eventually, once they realized how chill of a boss I am. I just stay in my office, give them some big ass Christmas bonuses, and let them do their own thing.”

“So then with _that_ pay raise, I started getting back into drag ‘cause I missed how I could just get lost in it for hours, you know? And I was able to afford high-end shit, the good quality makeup, not just cheap products from the drugstore, and I practiced performing in my living room to literally nobody just to get the hang of dancing, which I’m still terrible at. But I went back to the club, out of drag so the manager wouldn’t know I was that loser who didn’t know what the actual fuck he was doing out there, and he gave me another shot at another boring time on another weekday, but I did it and he booked me again for a few more weeks and I gradually worked my way to the prime spot. I was twenty-three when I started it full-time and when I saw Mandy again after nine years. That was the only other time I froze on stage, when I saw her standing there looking so grown up and beautiful, like that was probably the start of her suspicion ‘cause I watched her through the entire show.”

“And here I am,” his head tilted back to admire the chandelier hanging from the ceiling, reflections covering the walls, “financially stable, living by myself most of the time,” he looked at Ian again, feeling like the weight of the world had been lifted off of his shoulders, “got a good job with good people, some cats,” Cosmo heard the word and covered his face with his paws, “and I can actually say that I’m glad he didn’t kill me that day.”

“Me too,” Ian stood up and walked to Mickey, leaned over him with his hands on the back of the couch, holding him up and caging the other man’s head in. He dipped down and gently pressed his lips to Mickey’s forehead, eyes shut, showering him in acceptance and love without a single word spoken. He enveloped him in warmth by just one kiss, and connected their foreheads together to stare into his eyes, desperately needing him to hear this, to know and understand how grateful he was to have been given the privilege of being let into his life in such an incredibly powerful, personal, and intimate way, “Thank you.”


	13. Chapter 13

Saturdays were unarguably the best days. From morning to night, they spent every hour, minute and second together, all carefree and without any anticipation of the sun setting; they welcomed the darkness when Ian didn’t have to leave. Typically they would act like a child hiding from their parent coming to pick them up from a friend’s house as the world outside turned black, doing anything and everything to avoid going their separate ways, but they basked in the quiet isolation on that one day.

Fall had enveloped the city and Mickey’s suburb in a blanket of vibrant leaves and crisp air, relieving the civilians of the heat and constant sweat beading on their foreheads. Every season was new for them when they had someone to experience it with, giving them a whole new outlook on what would usually be a miserable time full of pulling their puffy jackets and mittens out of hibernation to get ready for winter. They found that even the coldest of days could be warm with someone good by your side.

The change in weather had them using Mickey’s backyard more than he ever had on his own. They’d chill out there and soak in the drop in temperature, appreciating each moment as it passed and moved closer to the next round of summer. It was the perfect section of the year where it wasn’t melting hot or freezing cold, where a pair of jeans and a light coat were enough to keep your body insulated. So Ian would start a fire, Mickey would get the stuff for s’mores from the kitchen, and they’d both eat their weight in the cavity-creating desserts while making fun of the cats meowing through the sliding glass door.

Things were good now, although the last few weeks of August and the first half of September were full of uncertainty and convincing that everything was just the same as before. Mickey had been confused as to why Ian was still around, why he still showed up every Friday evening with his weekend bag, a six-pack of nonalcoholic beer for himself, and a bottle of wine for his insecure best friend, and why he wanted to be anywhere near a _former_ prostitute, as if what he did was disgraceful, unforgivable or worse than Ian’s own past.

Those weeks of distance also meant weeks of no physical contact, not that either of them wanted it that way. Mickey started to feel grimy again, like throwing up his dirty little secret all over Ian got on himself too, and sent him spiraling into the mindset of being worthless and undesirable. Ian would remind him that it was silly to think like that whenever Mickey shifted his leg away after he let his hand land on the other man’s thigh while they watched T.V, when he’d yank his head back if Ian leaned in for a goodnight kiss, or when he’d move to a different part of the kitchen when palms would sear through his shirt and into the flesh of his hips while he was cooking.

But Ian had promised he wasn’t going to leave or judge him for his actions, and he stayed true to that. He repeated himself and his advances over and over again until Mickey believed him, believed that nothing he told him had changed his opinion of him or made him think any less of him. Eventually, the accusations of him only sticking around out of pity subsided, as did the thick, tension-filled fog that entered the house like a wave with Ian each time he walked through the front door.

Mickey rested his head on Ian’s shoulder one night and opened the gates back up, sent the wall crashing down and began the start of a completely honest and transparent relationship, friendship, it still wasn’t clear yet. They had gotten a taste of each other and were immediately blue-balled afterward with days on end to recover, except now they were blue-balled almost every day. The amount of clothes shed and skin touched by lips and burning fingertips intensified daily, and left them both breathless, gasping for air with a problem in their pants. Thankfully, they had their individual bedrooms with a shared wall to take care of those situations.

“This isn’t the best episode,” Mickey shook his hood-covered head against the pillow with his feet locked at the ankles on Ian’s lap, looking at the man like he was utterly delusional for thinking such a thing. “Yeah, it’s good, they’re all good,” he argued and raised his voice over the debating one, “but I’ll say it again- no,” he waited for a break in the conversation, “no, listen to me. The best episodes are: The Contest, The Subway, The Fusilli Jerry, and The Pen. If you wanna be disrespectful and say that an episode about cockfighting is the funniest, you can leave and come back after you’ve thought about what you said.”

“Sorry,” Ian patted the couch next to his thigh to invite both cats to join them, but they declined. “I didn’t know the rating of Seinfeld episodes was such a sensitive topic for you,” he was oozing sarcasm, and reached a hand out to place it over where his belly would be, had it not been hidden under a sweatshirt and a blanket, “forgive me.” Mickey flipped him off and turned his head to the side again to continue watching the show, an episode far down his Best Of list.

Ian ripped the thick, knitted sheet off his body and thought about how the other man wasn’t overheating with all those layers suffocating him. He somehow got himself between Mickey’s legs and let all of his weight fall on top of him, “Please forgive me, please,” he nosed his way into the hood covering his ears and neck, trying his hardest to squeeze in and gain access to the spots that made his man squirm, “please, please, please.”

Mickey kept telling him to shut up and get the fuck off him, but never physically fought him off, only crossed his ankles over Ian’s back to keep him in place. He felt lips imprinting themselves on his cheek, jaw, and down to his earlobe, leaving trails of teasing love across his stubbly skin. A ‘please’ would be mumbled against his face before the lips moved to another location, using the word to punctuate and end that part of his journey, “Yeah, yeah, I get it,” he slid one of his hands up the nape of Ian’s neck, the other staying gripped to Ian’s hip, “okay, yeah, I forgive you,” his mouth was spread wide in an euphoric smile, soul feeling like it had been transported to paradise, “let’s go to bed.”

Ian was like one of those giant dogs that think they’re the size of a chihuahua, unware of how long his limbs were or how heavy his dead weight could be. He relieved Mickey of the body-blanket and held himself up with fists on either side of the older man’s head, staring down at him for a moment before connecting their lips together. Mickey’s blunt nails scratched the tiny, buzzed hairs at the base of Ian’s skull, urging him to continue, but the redhead reluctantly pulled up, knowing it was better to stop things early and prevent any disappointment.

They both wanted it, they wanted it _so_ bad, but Mickey couldn’t bring himself to let Ian in like that. The fear of being left alone after being fucked was overwhelming, and even though he knew he could trust Ian, knew that he _most likely_ wasn’t going to abandon him and _most likely_ wouldn’t use him and leave him like every single other man had, the thought still lingered in the recesses of his mind. He could forget about it while they built up to the main act, but once Ian would go for the waistband of his pants, he would clam up and chicken out, feeling the rush of trauma come flooding into his head again. He was constantly riddled with guilt, always felt selfish and unworthy of this beautiful man even being in his presence. Holding out was hell for both of them equally, but the hell in Mickey’s brain was just as awful, except Ian couldn’t see it.

Watching Ian clamber off of him for the umpteenth time, seeing the frustrated expression written all over his face, noticing that he became quiet and distance while turning the T.V off so they could head upstairs was making the guilt come back with full force, but Ian didn’t even mean for that to happen. He was so indescribably good about it all, so patient and understanding, never pushing him for anything more than he would allow. But that didn’t mean that Mickey couldn’t pick up on what he wasn’t saying.

Ian used the flashlight on his phone to illuminate the ground in front of him after shutting the kitchen lights off, “Come on,” he spoke quietly as though his voice was louder now that the house was dark. He shined the beam in Mickey’s direction, giving him some help to maneuver around the coffee table and up the step, down the hallways and up the stairs. He didn’t need to light to know where Mickey’s face was, habitually reaching a hand out to cup his jaw and bring him in for one last goodnight kiss, silently telling him it was okay, that he could wait as long as it took and wouldn’t complain in the slightest.

Mickey could feel Ian trying to detach himself, but he kept a palm on column of his throat, trying to keep him near for as long as he could. It was desperate and eager, fingertips touching everywhere they could, phone dropped in the pocket of his sweats with the light still breaking through the fabric. Both could hear the cats meow from the floor, but paid no attention, only focusing on how their lips were moving together, melting into one another like the heat building up within each man was approaching a boiling point and their heads were turning into mush.

Dizzily, Mickey gripped Ian’s wrist and unexcitedly let the other man remove his bruising lips, but kept a hold on him. He started to step away, dragging Ian with him toward his room, and didn’t say a word. Ian’s eyes were already heavy for multiple reasons, but he was becoming more confused with each stride, and it took him a second to realize where they were headed, “What are you doing?”

More sock-clad footsteps were taken until Mickey responded, “I want you to sleep with me,” weakly, pathetically, like he was embarrassed to initiate anything to further whatever their relationship was. Yes, he started it all with their first kiss, but it was an impulse, an unplanned, accidental kiss. Everything Ian did was intentional, methodical and deliberate, with no room for Mickey to even think about whether he was serious or not. “Come on,” it may have been the three glasses of whiskey he had earlier to warm himself up, but confidence was crashing over him, and he didn’t care about anything except getting Ian’s body under his sheets and letting him know he wanted everything just as much.

“You don’t have to do that,” he started resisting, using his strength to plant his feet on the floor, making it harder for Mickey to pull him, “it’s okay, man.” It wasn’t that he didn’t want to go, he wanted to go more than fucking _anything_ , but he had a feeling he wouldn’t be able to hold back if he saw Mickey in anything other than his sweats and hoodie. The shorter man shook his head and used all his might to yank on Ian’s hand, making him stumble forward as they turned the corner to go down the hallway toward the room he was only in about once or twice a week, “Are you sure?”

The door was opened and Ian followed him in, watching as Mickey felt around the bed for the remote to turn on the T.V, forcing their eyes to adjust to the brightness, “Go brush your teeth or whatever,” he disappeared into the bathroom, leaving Ian alone in a foreign space with cats circling around his ankles. He could feel his heart racing, pounding like it does whenever they get into it, except he was standing by himself without any logical reason to be reacting this way. He’d brush his teeth, get into bed with Mickey, and sleep through the night. Easy.

And that’s exactly what he did. He gave himself a little pep talk in the mirror of what had turned into _his_ bathroom, the counter now covered in duplicates of his hair gel, favorite toothpaste, razors, basically everything he had at “home”. With foam in his mouth and the brush sticking out the corner, he put his hands on his hips and took a deep breath through his nose, followed by a solid two minutes of talking himself down from the ledge, reminding himself that it was no big deal, and comforting himself by remembering that Mickey wouldn’t let anything more happen, so there was nothing to worry about.

When he reentered the room, Mickey was in only his boxers, right in the middle of taking his sweatshirt off, and Ian instantly regretting agreeing to this. There was no way in hell he was going to be able to sleep next to this guy without blowing a load in his fancy-ass, expensive sheets, but it was too late. “You get that side,” pointed to the side closest to the bathroom, and tossed the clothes into the hamper, moving past him to get to the opposite entrance. Ian tried to play it cool, tried to keep his breathing under control and not look like a total pussy or uncomfortable in any way, because he wasn’t. The nerves, though, that’s what got him, “No, no, no, no, no,” Mickey stopped him with one knee pressed into the mattress, about to hike himself up, “you’re not putting a black shirt on my white sheets.” Expensive. Fancy. Right. “Take it off,” he realized that sounded slightly demanding, so he tried to lighten the load, “or go change or something.”

That gave Ian the upper hand, gave him some leverage over the guy controlling this situation. He only had a few seconds to contemplate his two options: take it off and show Mickey that he isn’t fucking around either, or play it safe and risk making Mickey think he isn’t into it. The first one was more fun. He withdrew his knee and removed the thin, almost see-through shirt off and folded it nicely, remembering how irritated it would’ve made Mickey if he just threw it on the ground. It was placed on his nightstand, the other man watching his every move in the dimly lit room, lips slightly parted in admiration, but he wasn’t finished. Imitating Mickey’s decision, he shucked his sweats off too, folding and stacking them on the shirt before climbing into bed with his companion, feeling eyes glued to him and his bare skin.

“Cold?” Mickey asked with goosebumps forming along his own exposed arms, and pulled the covers up to envelope him from the shoulders down, leaving only his blank hair poking out of a sea of white. He saw Ian shake his head and sink further into the bed, letting out a long sigh like he was lying on a cloud. They remained in silence for a while, an episode of House Hunters the only thing filling the room with something other than sexual tension. He tried waiting for Ian to take matters into his own hands, but the alcohol lingering in his system made it next to impossible, “You gonna do something?”

Ian turned his head away from the T.V to look at this angel tucked in next to him with dilated pupils, yawning like a kitten, “What do you mean?” Mickey brought his arms out from under the comforter and let them fall at his sides, holding his palms up suggestively to try and get his point across. Ian moved slowly to keep the pets sleeping at the end of the bed, and found himself between Mickey’s legs again, a place he’d never get sick of visiting, “What do you want me to do?”

He went in like he did every night on the couch, and as soon as his lips hit the heated skin stretched over Mickey’s collarbone, he knew for sure it was a bad idea. Getting riled up and hard without any way of relieving himself would only end in them going to sleep unsatisfied and irritable, aching for a release that wasn’t going to _come_. Stopping wasn’t an option, though, and not one his brain even considered acting on once little breathy groans started slipping from Mickey’s throat and fingers were intertwined in his hair.

Deep down, he didn’t care that this wouldn’t lead to anything. After waiting for what felt like an eternity to be in this moment, it wasn’t a big deal if he had to stop before the main event, even if he’d feel like he could explode after they slowed things down. Obviously he wanted to be buried inside the man beneath him, but the outside was just as incredible and he didn’t take the privilege for granted. To be able to taste him, hear and _feel_ him react to everything he did was the greatest honor of Ian’s lifetime, and there was no way in hell he’d jeopardize that by thinking with his second head.

Over the course of the past couple weeks of exploring each other, he learned that Mickey _really_ liked having his nipples played with. With a single graze of his teeth, followed by one lap of his tongue, he’d turn into an unapologetic, whimpering mess, and Ian kept that information stored away as a secret weapon, pulling it out to tease him every so often, but never gave them more than a few seconds of attention at a time.

His lips created a path of open-mouthed, wet kisses across his chest and down to below his belly button, letting his tongue poke out to saturate the area before dragging his bottom lip up against the soft, still-hairless-from-last-night’s-show skin. He sucked on one hipbone and kissed his way to the other, nearing closer and closer to the danger zone, but the fingertips gently massaging his scalp weren't screaming stop, so he didn’t. His nose brushed over the band of his boxers, so close to what had him salivating, yet so far away. Accidentally, his tongue snuck out of his mouth and touched the fabric covering the very apparent lump underneath, staining the material with a damp print.

He expected Mickey to flinch or yank his hair to put an end to all of this, possibly both at once, but neither came. A sharper, high-pitched, _needy_ whine squeaked out as the contact was made, his hips barely moving upwards to get that feeling back, but nothing signaling that he wanted Ian to do anything other than continue. So, doing as he was sort of asked, he licked a stripe up the entire length of his cock, and as his hands worked their way back up to his hips, fingers hooked and ready to do what he’d been waiting to do for months, his hair was tugged on and, like he was hypnotized, he was brought back to reality.

Everything paused, he looked up in Mickey’s direction to see him staring at the ceiling with his eyes shut, and he dropped his face onto his tummy, not ready for the session to end. He nuzzled his cheek into the warm flesh, and spoke into the void, not envisioning receiving any response, “Please let me blow you,” it was a rhetorical, nonsensical, and hopeless, “please, please, please.” The words were quiet and without any real intent, all he knew was that he was about to fall asleep next to a hard dick that he could take care of right at that moment, if only he had permission.

“Never heard of someone begging to suck a dick before,” remorsefully, he kept his fingers in his hair, leisurely pushing the strands to one side, the red locks gliding between his digits smoothly.

With his face still pressed against Mickey’s body, his reply was mumbled and unintentionally snarky, feeling the heat in the pit of his stomach still burning, his blood unwilling to travel back to his head, “Never heard of someone turning down getting their dick sucked.”

“I’m sorry,” Mickey said regretfully as Ian climbed on top of him again, leaning down to place a single kiss on his forehead as to give his own apology for what he just said, and maybe for something he did, if that was the problem. The younger man flopped onto _his_ side of the bed and bent his knees to create a tent over his own problem, hoping it wouldn’t be as obvious. Mickey scrubbed a hand over his face, upset with himself and his fucked up mind, “You know it’s not you, right?” Ian started to say yes, but he was cut off, “No, you really, really know that it’s not your fault, right?”

“I mean, I feel like I kinda take it too far sometimes-”

“No, see, that’s the problem,” he clutched the remote and changed the channel to something more interesting than middle-aged couples bickering over what paint color they want in their new house, “you shouldn’t feel like that, I don’t want you to _ever_ feel like that.” Cosmo felt his dad’s anger, so much so it woke him up and caused him to walk onto Mickey’s abdomen, purring and attempting to calm him down, “I don’t wanna be too graphic or too blunt or whatever, but you just gotta know that I want you to fuck me more than anything. Like,” he hesitated, thinking maybe that was too much to reveal, but after the whole Life Story fiasco, nothing really felt like too much anymore, “I want you so bad, but it’s my own shit that fucks me up. It has nothing to do with you, I swear.”

“What is it?” Ian asked innocently, extending a hand to pet the cat on the other man’s body, “Is it something I do or say? Like, what can I do to make it easier?” immediately, he felt the need to backtrack, “Not that I’m in a rush or anything, you don’t gotta worry about that. I’ll wait until you’re ready, but why is it so hard for you? No pun intended.”

Mickey smiled and brought the sheets up to his shoulders, forcing Cosmo to get off him and give him some room to breathe, “I dunno, man, it’s being thrown out by my parents, spending years getting used like a piece of meat and left alone,” he listed, and although he could feel Ian staring at him, he kept his focus on the T.V, “it’s a lotta things, but none of it’s about you.” The bed moved next to him as the other man sunk further into the mattress and rolled onto his side, folding the pillow to prop his head up and hear whatever Mickey had to say, “I know that you aren’t gonna be like them, like, I _know_ that, but every time we get to that point I start thinkin’ stupid and I don’t want you to fuck me and go like everyone else. So I just don’t wanna do it, ‘cause if we don’t, then you won't leave. Does that make sense?” he rambled, not even bothering to look for an answer, “But I know you wouldn’t, so no, it doesn’t make any sense. And then,” Ian’s tired mind was trying to keep up, “I start thinkin’ about how if I hold out for too long, you’re gonna leave anyway and find someone else to fuck and-”

“Mickey,” he said once, but the guy continued spewing out line after anxiety-ridden line, “Mickey, listen to me,” nothing he said would stop him, so he reached over and grabbed one of his hands, squeezing tight to get his attention, “I’m not going anywhere, _you_ gotta know _that_. I come here every day after work, I stay here on the weekends, I spend all my free time with you, and don’t wanna meet anyone else or _fuck_ anyone else.” He felt the hand he was holding relax, grip loosening at the comforting reassurance, “I’m not goin’ anywhere, alright? You can't get rid of me that easy.” Mickey covered Ian’s hand with his own, “Just take your time, don’t worry about me.”

“I don’t want you to feel like I’m not into you, though.”

“I don’t,” Ian released his hand and placed it on Mickey’s furthermost shoulder, using just enough pressure to get him to come closer. “I know you’re into me,” snorts escaped both of their noses as Mickey rolled to face him, his cheek flush against Ian’s right pec, “and I know that sounded really cocky, but you know what I mean.” An arm was slung across a chest, another was wrapped around a neck, bare legs were tied together, and fingertips traced mindlessly along patches of skin, “Go to sleep.”

Ian found the remote and shut the T.V off, closed his eyes and listened to Mickey’s soft, steady breaths. He had almost dozed off completely, the humming heater acting as a built in sound machine, when Mickey poked over his heart a little too roughly, “Sorry,” he whispered, “I forgot to ask you something, but if I don’t say it now, I’ll forget again.” He hummed to let him go on and rubbed an open palm over his shoulder blade, “Do you wanna go to a Halloween party with me?”

“When?”

“Halloween.”

“Where?”

“It’s for work,” he dragged his nail over tufts of hair invisible in the darkness, creating indistinct drawings before using his hand as an eraser, swiping across to give himself a blank slate to start another. Ian was struggling to keep himself alert enough to understand what Mickey was saying, but the art being designed on his skin helped a bit, “I don’t even wanna go, but I’m considered “upper management”, so I gotta,” he altered his voice to a mocking tone, ““be a good role model for my subordinates.””

“I’ll go if it’s a costume party,” Ian spoke unenthusiastically, now slightly more awake than when the conversation started. He was informed that, yes, it was a costume party, so he started shooting out ideas about how they could match, but nothing stuck, “Why don’t you go in drag, and I’ll be a bouncer?”

“I am absolutely not wearing day drag on a Wednesday to a party full of straight men with shitty senses of humor,” they heard one of the cats whine as he stretched and curled up into a ball, provoked by Mickey’s foot accidentally tapping him from under the covers, “hell no.”

Ian was holding something back, something he knew wouldn’t be taken seriously and could possibly have him kicked back into the guest room, but he said it anyway, blaming his impulsivity on how tired he was, “Maybe we can get Mandy to come and we can be the Three Musketeers.”

“Jesus Christ, you’re not gonna give that up, are you?” it was harmless, said with nothing but pity for someone who couldn’t seem to overlook that one piece of information and move on with his life. They barely talked about her anymore, specifically after they started fooling around again. Mickey didn’t want to hear about her, and Ian didn’t want to risk ruining the good thing they had started up, but she was a constant elephant in the room, a fly on the wall, never giving them a second to forget about a vital connection in their story and what would be a huge stepping stone in Mickey’s healing. They had a huge fight a few nights before Mickey caved and reignited their intimacy, Ian asked about her one too many times and the former had enough, heard enough, and told him to give him a couple weeks to think about it. And he knew Ian was going to hold him to that, “I told you: Thanksgiving.” His fingers stalled and he considered flipping himself to face away from him, but the strong hold around his upper body made it impossible, “Please don’t start this right now.”

“I’m not starting anything,” he countered, words coming out like molasses as the melatonin kicked into overdrive and began to infiltrate his mind, “I’m just impatient. Want us to all be friends so I won't have to lie to her anymore, I hate it.” Once he felt Mickey go back to drawing, he figured that was the end of the conversation, and that was okay with him. He could wait a month if it meant they could all hangout without it being weird afterwards, if she could forgive him for lying about so many things, if the siblings could actually get along like they did thirteen years prior. He could wait a month, “Go to sleep.”

By the next night, they had agreed on a costume that was neither original nor creative, figuring it was easier than trying to come up with something on their own. They went out shopping on Sunday, getting everything they needed for their cheap, pathetically simple outfits, and somehow found themselves wandering around Hobby Lobby. Ian convinced Mickey to get decorations for the coming holidays, arguing that it would brighten his mood and get him into the spirit of the winter months. The idea of having things strewn around his house, random objects everywhere collecting dust and taking up space made his skin crawl, but he did it anyway as a way to hopefully move past the shit that caused him to be like that.

Mickey caught Ian fawning over little trinkets, showing him how cute they were, and putting them back instead of in their cart. He knew why, he knew that habit all too well, so after Ian walked away, he’d grab whatever was just placed back on the shelve and snuck it into the collection of items that would be cluttering up his house soon enough. Money wasn’t an issue for him, it had been for a long time, but the one thing he’d learned after meeting Ian and realizing how much he enjoyed seeing him happy was that you can't take money with you when you die, so you might as well spend it on people you love while you can.

Ian reminded him he didn’t have to buy everything, that it wasn’t a big deal, that it was his house and he should be the one to decide what goes in it, but Mickey just swiped his card and told him to shut the fuck up. They spent the rest of the night listening to Christmas music, albeit a little prematurely, and decorated the house with everything orange, yellow and red, pumpkins, turkeys, anything that fit within the autumn category. He hid all the stuff for Christmas in Anna’s closet, and when he headed back downstairs and saw the banisters wrapped with multi-colored, fake leaves, he realized clutter wasn’t so bad, as long as it looked pretty and served a purpose.

They put off making their costumes until the night of the party, only because they were _that_ uninspired and painless to put together. Ian came over after work and hot glued things onto plain, white clothes at the kitchen table while Mickey made dinner, internally picturing this as their life ten years from now, making a shitty, last-minute costume for their child. It was stupid to think about, stupid and potentially unrealistic, but the domesticity always slithered its way into his imagination, particularly in moments like this with candles lit and the T.V playing lowly in the background; it felt like they were a living Hallmark movie. “Alright,” he said as he pressed down firmly to adhere the final black circle onto his pants, “whatdya think?”

Mickey left the spoon in the pot of homemade spaghetti sauce and came up behind him, bending down to lock his arms around his neck, hands clasped over his chest, “I think…” he paused, rubbing his cheek against Ian’s temple, “we’re gonna kill the competition and win that fuckin’ costume contest.”

“There’s a contest?” Ian asked, clearly upset that theirs were so lame, “Why didn’t you tell me? We could’ve done something better.” Mickey went back to stirring his sauce and assured him that it was dumb, that he was pretty sure not everyone was even participating, so they’d be praised for even trying, “What’s the prize, anyway?”

“Honestly? Probably a football,” he heard Ian chuckle while he added some extra glue to make sure the pieces wouldn’t go anywhere, then hiss as some of the melted, sticky adhesive burned his finger. Noodles were dropped into boiling water, pepper was freshly ground into the sauce, “I don’t even know if this is gonna look right, ‘cause I’m shorter than you. It’s gonna be all outta whack.”

“It’ll be fine,” Ian pulled the plug out of the outlet to let the gun cool down, and gathered all the scraps on the table to throw away, “especially ‘cause we’re not playing to win, right?” He listened as Mickey hummed, tossed everything in the garbage, then held a pair of white jeans up to his waist with things accessorizing each leg: two black circles on the right, one on his shin, the other covering a pocket on his hip, and a bunch of blue painter’s tape running horizontally on the left, “Good?”

“Already lookin’ like a piece of paper,” he fished a noodle out to test its doneness and chewed on the nearing al dente pasta, deciding to give it another minute or so, “maybe I don’t even need to dress up, seems like you got it covered.” His failing attempt at getting out of it was met with a white t-shirt with those same blue lines stripped across it being held in front of what he already had on, “You’re really gonna make me wear this, huh?”

Ian just gave him a smile and cleared off the rest of the table, including his shirt with another black circle over his shoulder, and Mickey’s pants with bands of blue going up both legs. They ate dinner, fed the cats, got ready, and hopped into Mickey’s car to head to his office. Driving at night in an expensive vehicle at night with the streetlights passing by was like another scene from the fairytale movie Ian pictured his life to be, except it was his reality. Every so often, he’d glace over at the man next to him with one had on the wheel and silently question how he got so lucky, how he of all people was allowed to be in a car with Mickey Milkovich on their way to a Halloween party for the Bears while wearing cheesy, coordinating costumes. He didn’t feel worthy of the happiness that filled him on a daily basis, the warmth that would bubble up in his chest and make him want to scream those three words at the top of his lungs. He knew Mickey was too good for him, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care; not when they were walking side by side into a corporate building to mingle with a bunch of executives, and definitely not when they were lounging at home, laughing at themselves and one another.

“Wait,” Ian asked as the elevator took off, knocking them slightly off balance, “do they know you’re gay? Who am I to you, what’s the story?”

“I assume they know,” Mickey scratched the underside of his chin, feeling the five o-clock shadow breaking through a couple hours late, “I mean, they know how I got the promotion, everyone knows that. Even the people that weren't here when it happen know.” The moving box passed a number of floors, and they listened to the speaker chime with each one, “Just say your name, I guess. I don’t think they’ll even care, everyone’s bringing their family and shit.”

The doors opened to a decorated hallway with signs pointing toward the party. There were orange streamers and balloons hung around the entrance with multiple pumpkins carved into footballs sitting on the ground, one even on a kicking block like it was ready to be sent flying down the field. It was a conference room of sorts, just a big, open area with tables covered in plastic covers from Party City, a buffet and drink station at one end of the room, a DJ at the other. Everyone was dressed to impress and seemingly eager to win the competition with costumes that looked like they cost more than Mickey’s mortgage.

“Find us a place, I’ll go get us somethin’ to eat,” he brushed a palm against Ian’s back, gently sending him into the sea of tables. The bartender shook up a drink for Mickey while he piled Halloween-themed food onto two paper plates with one hand, the other holding an ice-cold water bottle for Ian. As he accepted a cup full of much needed alcohol and was about to walk away, the first obstacle of the night came lumbering toward him, “God fucking dammit.”

“Milkovich!” an older, white man covered in orange face paint with a red baseball hat on yelled a little too loudly for how close he was to Mickey, causing even Ian to glance up from his phone to see what the problem was, “I didn’t see you come in, when’d you get here?”

“Hey, Mark,” his voice was tight and quiet, irritated from only one sentence, while he sat the plates down so he wouldn’t drop them, “uh, a couple minutes ago.” The guy nodded and folded his arms across his chest, appearing scarily similar to the horror figure he was portraying, “Place looks pretty good,” he took the opportunity to twist his head around to check up on Ian, only to see him sitting safely with his thumbs scrolling along his phone, “very orange.”

“Fuck that,” Mark leaned in, afraid his superior would hear the foul language, the _locker room talk_. “Who the hell are you?” he scanned Mickey up and down, eyes squinted and brows knitted in confusion, “A liberal Waldo? You’re missin’ the hat.”

“No, I’m, uh,” he tilted his chin to analyze the blue stripes, patting down one edge that was beginning to peel off, “I’m a piece of paper.” Mark’s expression didn’t change, in fact, it got even more puzzled, like he couldn’t understand why on earth someone would be a _piece of paper_ for Halloween, “My date’s the other part of it,” he tried to dumb it down, “it makes sense if we stand next to each other.”

“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend?” Mickey shook his head, “Wife?” his eyes with white half-moons underneath went wide, shocked that he didn’t know this average detail about his coworker, “Where is she?” He searched the room, looking for a woman, but stopped when Mickey answered.

“ _He’s_ right over there,” he pointed toward the redhead who was now waiting patiently with his hands clasped watching their conversation, and both men waved to each other when their eyes locked, “the guy with the black dot on his shirt. He’s the three hole punch to my lines, so…” His lips were sucked in smugly, head cocked to the side, while the other man tried to register what he just learned, “What are you? Let me guess… Alec Baldwin?”

It took some time for Mark to catch on, to shake himself out of the gay haze Mickey just forced on him, but he just readjusted his hat as some sort of solidifying his views on that and became extremely unfriendly, “No.”

“Um…” he sipped his drink and sat it back down on the table, wincing at the burn in the back of his throat, “A Cheeto? Dorito?” Mark was unimpressed, giving only a slight shake of his head, “OH, I got it: a tanning bed personified? No? Damn, okay, uh…” another sip flowed smoothly down to his stomach now that he knew what he was expecting, “Self-tanner? Skin cancer before it’s diagnosed?”

Flatly, he put Mickey out of his guessing misery, “I’m Donald Trump.”

“Oh,” he said, disappointed, “well, I got it right on the last one, why didn’t you say yes?” Mark moved out of the way so someone could fill their own plate without a response, so Mickey assumed that was the end of the conversation, “Anyway, I’m gonna go eat,” he picked up both servings of food and his glass, spreading his fingers wide enough to hold it all, “It was nice talking to you.”

“Hey,” Mark stopped him in his tracks, tone not as harshly unemotional. He stepped closer to Mickey, as if what he was about to ask was too scandalous for the rest of the employees to hear, “Are you really…” he left it open, hoping Mickey would fill in the blank, but only got an empty stare, “…gay?”

His swiped his tongue over his back teeth, lips parted and hands cramping from all the weight, “Yeah.”

“But I thought James, ya know,” he peeked around to see the people surrounding them completely uninterested with what they were saying, yet he continued to talk lowly, shamefully, “made you do it?”

“He did, but honestly? _I_ probably made _him_ realize something about himself,” Mickey started to shift back, trying to physically remove himself from this situation, “Didn’t he and his wife get divorced? Anyway, I really gotta go. Come say hi later, I’m sure my guy would love to meet you. Your skin’s the same color as his hair, how funny is tha-” he cut himself off with a full turnaround and walked straight to Ian, weaving in and out of tables and almost tripped on the leg of a chair. Their plates and drinks got placed in front of their spots, but Mickey stayed standing, knowing full well Mark’s focus was still on them, “Kiss me,” he whispered and leaned down to capture Ian’s lips with his before the other man could even protest.

Ian’s palm gripped Mickey’s freshly shaven jaw once the surprise of it had subsided and he was able to enjoy the spontaneity. Of course, Ian had picked the table in the center of the room to be in the middle of the action, but little did he know that _they_ would be the action. Everyone around them stopped what they were doing, put down their forks, halted their feet on the dancefloor, all to stare at the two men making out at an NFL Halloween party. Mickey pulled back, gave one final kiss to Ian’s cheek for good measure, and took his seat, ignoring the prying eyes and inaudible gasps coming from the men and women he worked with on a daily basis who never would’ve suspected, “I got you your favorite,” Mickey held a tiny red fruit from its stem and held it out for Ian, “strawberries.”

“Thank you,” he plucked the berry from Mickey’s fingers and bit into it, the rest of the room getting back into what they had previously been doing. Although it was unclear to him what caused that random act of public affection, it didn’t matter, but he still wanted to be in the loop, “Who was that?”

“Some dipshit who’s probably gonna file a complaint over that and get himself fired for discrimination,” Mickey slouched back into his chair and dropped pretzels into his mouth one by one. He washed the salt down with his drink, already wanting a refill, “They even _try_ to fire me for this, I’ll sue every last one of ‘em, I swear to God.” Ian had a view of Mark and kept an eye on him as he gossiped to other old, white men only for both of them to turn and look disgustingly at them. He didn’t say anything, figuring that what Mickey didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, “Do you see what the fuck he’s wearing? Isn’t that illegal or whatever?” he downed the rest of the liquid in his cup, the ice falling onto his upper lip, “Bringing politics into the workplace? There’s gotta be some kinda rule against that.”

“I dunno,” he popped the cap of his water and took a gulp, “don’t worry about it, though. Dicks are gonna be dicks, you can't do anything about it.” Mickey nodded, unaware that the same piece of tape peeled up again. Ian reached over and pressed on his chest, rubbing it flat against the fabric of his shirt, “If it makes you feel any better, you look cute.” He let his hand trail down to Mickey’s thigh, giving it a small squeeze before stealing his cup, “I’ll get you another.”

He maneuvered his way through the tables, returning every weird look he got with a smile, and handed the bartender Mickey’s glass, “Whatever orange drink you’re making, please.”

“You want one too?”

“No,” he shook his head and bit through a grape from the buffet, “thank you, though.”

Mickey was watching him from behind, saw the first exchange, but stayed seated. He knew he would be slightly on edge, but that one interaction pushed him so far over the cliff it was like he was holding on by his fingertips, barely keeping himself from spiraling down and flipping the fuck out. Everybody at work was cool with him, but all he could think about was how he’d be treated differently now, how they might think less of him or refuse to see him as an authority figure. Ian was right, he couldn’t do anything about it until something needed to be done, but the idea of going into work tomorrow with these same demeaning stares as if he changed overnight made him nauseous.

“You sure you don’t want one?” the soundless words coming from the bartender’s mouth caught Mickey’s attention, putting him on alert as the guy extended an arm to hand Ian the drink. As soon as he noticed Ian’s head shaking again, he got up and sauntered over, already internally telling himself to sit back down.

“Nah, I don’t drink.”

“What’s goin’ on?” Mickey came up next to Ian and stood protectively against him, even though there was nothing to protect him from.

“Oh,” startled, Ian jostled the drink a bit too much, some of the alcohol dripping down the sides of the glass, “nothing, I was just getting you a refill.” He transferred it to Mickey’s accepting grip, “Here.”

“Come on, man,” the charming, dark-skinned man with a blinding smile continued to persuade him, “just have one. They’re free.”

Now realizing what the guy had been asking, another finger slipped from the cliff, bringing him closer to freefalling, “He doesn’t fuckin’ drink, Jesus Christ,” he felt a comforting, warm pressure to the small of his back, calming his nerves instantly.

“Thank you,” Ian repeated, leading Mickey away from the second obstacle of the night and back to their table. He sat Mickey in his chair before returning to his own, scooting further toward him to give his leg another reassuring embrace, “You need to relax,” he smiled, conflicted on whether he should feel concerned that something so small could infuriate him so easily, or happy that he was willing to defend him in an imaginary argument, “he didn’t know I don’t drink.”

“He asked you like twenty goddamn times.”

“Three,” he corrected, his hand being bounced up and down on top of Mickey’s shaking leg. The other man was closing himself off, chewing on the corner of his lip, angry at himself and the whole party for ruining what was supposed to be a fun night for _Ian_ , someone who deserved nothing but good things, “If you wanna go, we can go, it doesn’t matter to me.”

It did, though. It mattered a lot to both of them for different reasons, but it mattered nonetheless, and he wasn’t about to give up without a fight, “No.” He looked around again, expecting to see people interested in what was going on or why he was so upset when nothing bad had happened, but everyone was minding their own business, talking to each other about their costumes or what they’d be doing for the coming holidays. It gave him a sense of contentment, like he could get through this. If not for himself, for Ian, “No, we’ll stay. Haven’t kicked everybody’s asses in the contest, yet.”

They ate and acted like this was a date, pretended like they were the only ones in the room, like pieces of cheese and Ritz crackers were the fine dining they’d yet to treat themselves to. As time progressed, Mickey’s rage turned into spite, and he played up his gayness for the remainder of the party, but it peaked during the contest. Everyone did their own rendition of a pageant walk across the dancefloor, playing up whatever their character was or staying regal if their costume allowed. Mickey grabbed Ian’s hand and dragged him up when their time came, gripping it tightly as they slowly showed their cheap-ass outfits by sticking together, side by side. He got the black Sharpie that had been hidden in Ian’s pocket and wrote GAY in big, bold capital letters across both of their chests, like you would on a piece of paper. The anticipation of silence was quickly washed away with the cheers of the audience, the majority of women giving them a standing ovation. In sync, they gave a bow, and returned to their seats, both high on happy.

It was freeing to not care. He had a tendency to overthink things to the point of exhaustion, but reminding himself that regardless of what happens in the future, he’d still have his job, he couldn’t be fired, and he was still the boss, made him feel better. It made it easier to let loose and have fun with his best friend, made ignoring Mark and all of his homophobic, male bosses even sweeter. Made losing the prize to a woman dressed as OJ Simpson’s glove one of the funniest things to happen to him in a long time, causing them both to laugh endlessly while she accepted a season pass to the games. Admittedly, the booze helped, but numbing his negative thoughts with positive moments was the main remedy.

As the party died down, three young girls dressed as Charlie’s Angels came up to their table and asked if they could sit for a minute. Ian complimented their costumes and made them feel comfortable, as they were clearly nervous about talking to their boss in such a setting, “We just wanted to say how awesome it was that you guys did that,” the one in the middle started, “like, not only in front of a whole crowd, but in this industry where being straight is the only option… You’re really cool, Mr. Milkovich.”

“We all went to school together and met in an LGBT+ group,” the one to the right continued, “and it’s really nice to know that our boss is one of us, ya know? Like, we’re all gay too, and now we don’t have to worry about being fired by some shitty- shit, sorry. Oh my god, I’m sorry.”

“Relax,” he chuckled, tired and little sweaty from the alcohol, “I’ve had too many drinks to give a fuck.”

The girls visibly chilled out and sunk into their chairs like the two men, no longer stiff and professional, “Anyway,” they all laughed, blushing barely, “knowing that you’re not, like, some homophobic piece of trash is really comforting. We just wanted you to know that.”

“Thank you, I really appreciate that,” he held his empty glass up to cheers, but no one else had anything, so he clinked an invisible cup in the air and down the rest of his drink. “I’m really glad you guys got hired, you’re doing a really good job.” They all thanked him and said their goodbyes, recommending he bring Ian into the office more often because he ‘seems cool’.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been called ‘cool’ by a group of girls, like,” he imitated their overuse of the word, and helped Mickey stand up, immediately confiscating his keys, “ever.” They left the room to be cleaned by janitors, both feeling a bit guilty for not helping. The elevator was filled with partygoers, some with costumes that were falling apart, but the boys only lost a few pieces of tape and one black circle.

“Don’t crash my car,” his words came out partially slurred as he let go of Ian and walked himself to the passenger side, using the vehicle as something to keep him upright, “I trust you, but don’t crash it.”

“Get in, loser. We’re going home,” the movie reference made Mickey laugh so hard he almost hit himself in the head as he ducked down to get into the car.

Mickey insisted on having his window rolled down the whole ride home, not caring at all that winter was near or that Ian was shivering. He had his arm sticking out, becoming almost numb from the constant cold wind hitting it, but he didn’t care. The free feeling wasn’t fading, and he wanted to keep it alive for as long as he could, if not forever. He had merged two thirds of his life together, knowing it would change everything, but naïvely thinking maybe everyone would be nothing short of accepting and tolerant. Things would change, and just like the decorations, he hated change. But he quickly grew to like the décor, and he could see himself growing to like the change at work just as much.

The cats greeted them at the front door, passed them as Ian gradually helped Mickey climb one stair at a time, and hopped on the bed before either owner could even catch up to them. Since he wasn’t completely incoherent, Ian let Mickey deal with removing his own clothes, and climbed into _their_ bed, tucking the sheets under his sides to warm his freezing body up in a makeshift burrito. Mickey got in on his side and habitually clung to Ian, using his chest as a pillow. “Did you have fun?” it was all he wanted to make sure of, to know that it was all worth it, but only if he was happy.

“Mhm,” Ian hummed and soothingly ran his fingers through Mickey’s hair like he did every night, feeling utterly tranquil, like nothing could bring him down from this high. Never in his life did he think he’d be able to experience this amount of euphoria without pills, alcohol or weed, but Mickey made his mind and body race in the best, and safest, way imaginable, “Thank you for taking me.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry this took over four months i am a dumpster fire personified

Fall was quickly coming to a close, meaning all of the bodies on the streets of Chicago were bundled up in jackets and scarves, shielded by umbrellas, as rain became a daily occurrence. There had been a few rare snow days leading up to Thanksgiving, which Mickey and Ian spent cooped up inside under blankets with the heater blasting, keeping themselves warm enough to the point of sweating. Ian introduced him to an alternative version – a dry version – of being in a hot tub, then jumping into an ice-cold pool, something Mickey had never heard in his twenty-seven years of life. They’d walk outside in nothing but their pajamas and bare feet, and stand on the front porch with the neighborhood children who were building snowmen staring at them like they were high until it felt like their toes were becoming frostbitten, then would cuddle up again under a comforter and use each other to bring their internal body temperatures back to normal.

As the days passed, Mickey did all he could to push the inevitable demise of his secret to the deepest recesses of his mind, hoping that maybe, just maybe, if he didn’t mention it, Ian would forget about it and nothing would happen. But each time they saw a commercial promoting Black Friday deals, went to the store and saw pounds upon pounds of frozen turkeys, saw anything Thanksgiving related, Ian would ask some sly question about what pie they should make Mandy. He’d ask if Mickey remembered if she liked cranberry sauce – because it’s a very love or hate kind of food – or if she was allergic to pumpkins or apples, anything to remind his man that, yes, this was happening, and it _needed_ to happen. Mickey just played along, giving bland, uninterested responses, partially out of avoidance, partially because he was upset that he couldn’t remember those minor details about his little sister.

Because of Ian’s insistent questions, Mickey found himself thinking of certain parts of his life he tried tirelessly to erase. His childhood was always present in his routine, whether it be giving his body the nutrients it needed to survive or washing himself clean of the daily grime he felt building up within his pores, the reminder of where he came from was constant, regardless of if he wanted it to be or not. He found himself able to remember the bad things more than the good, the fights with his sister instead of the peaceful moments he knew they had, yet couldn’t put a finger on any details. Arguments between his parents would come flooding back when coworkers would have a disagreement, raising their voices to get their point across stronger than their opponent, and he’d have to excuse himself to let the thought fade away into the darkness until it decided to be brought back up again.

Yet still, he was unable to recall if Mandy was allergic to apples.

It was such a simple thing, a yes or no answer, but he couldn’t get his brain to work hard enough to come to a conclusion. He could still see her at their elementary school cafeteria, giving him her sliced granny smith apples, but he wasn’t sure if it was out of pity because he was never given lunch money, she just didn’t like them, or if she was allergic. Maybe all three. The questioned followed him like a ghost, irritating him whenever he had free time and was only left to wonder about it, and on the night of Friday, November 16th, he broke down and decided to satisfy his craving, “Can you ask Mandy something for me?”

Mickey never spoke that word, hadn’t said it out loud since he rehashed his whole life story, used “my sister” or just didn’t talk about her at all, so the use of her given name caught Ian off guard, “Hm?” he looked up from his phone to catch those blue eyes with his own, the backs of his thighs beginning to hurt from sitting on the bathroom counter while Mickey shaved, “What?”

He caught himself slipping, and reworded his question, “Can you ask my sister something for me?” It was a way of distancing himself from the whole situation. If Mandy didn’t have a name, wasn’t a person who he deeply loved and cared about, it would be easier for him to pick up the pieces of himself when she decides that her anger toward him overpowers the connection they had as children. She was his sister, yes, but as the days dwindled down and the reality of him seeing her once and then never again was starting to sink in, he could no longer have any emotional attachment to her; although, that was easier said than done.

“I know what you said,” Ian got off the counter and twisted his spine, pops echoing throughout the bathroom as his numb ass began to regain feeling, “what do you want me to ask her?” Aside from whatever Mickey wanted to know, he would also be asking her what she was doing for Thanksgiving in only a few hours. He had no doubt she would agree, especially after being broken up with on Halloween for wearing a purposely – and self-described – slutty costume. She had no plans, Ian knew she had no plans, and all he had to do was convince her to spend a holiday with him at his boyfriend’s house without giving her any information about him, not even his name. A piece of cake.

“Can you ask her,” Mickey paused to rinse off the razor, jostling water filling the silence, and took those couple seconds to ignore how stupid this question was, “if she’s allergic to apples?” Ian stood with his hands on his hips and a confused expression plastered across his face, forgetting that _he_ was the one who initially brought this topic up only a week ago. “I was watching Barefoot Contessa at work this morning ‘cause I was bored as shit and she made an apple pie,” this was true, “and I wanna make it, but I don’t wanna kill her.”

“Of course I’ll ask her,” Ian absentmindedly paced across the tile floor, paying close attention to the strips of hair along Mickey’s legs being cut flush against his skin, the razor gliding effortlessly over a thick layer of cream. “I gotta ask if she’s a vegan, too, ‘cause I feel like she might be,” he loved this routine, loved being a part of the behind the scenes process, but patience was not his strong suit, “actually, maybe not. She just broke up with some earthy kinda hippy, maybe she’d rebel and eat the entire turkey herself.” He rambled when impatience came over him, hoping that if he talked enough, time would pass quicker, “She started smoking again, so eating meat doesn’t seem too farfetched.”

“She’s not smoking in my house,” Mickey ran his hands over his shins, calves, and thighs to feel for any spots he missed, then pulled the plug and waited for the water to drain, “and we’re making turkey, regardless.” He pointed to the towel racked and mouthed a “please” in Ian’s direction, “But you heard that, right? _We_ are making the food, not just me. And if she has some special diet, she can bring her own tofu turkey shit.”

“Tofurky.”

“Whatever.”

Ian handed him the towel and exited into their room, “I highly doubt she’s a vegan, I just wanna make sure.” Last week, Mickey had invited him to start leaving some of his things at the house instead of lugging a backpack back and forth from home to home. It started with a toothbrush, the toothbrush lead to a spare winter jacket, which lead to Mickey clearing out an entire drawer in his dresser for him to fill with whatever he’d like. He pulled out a clean button-down shirt to change into, and set the dirty one in their hamper to keep Mickey happy, “We gotta go shopping sometime before you go back to work, even though everyone else is gonna be doing the same thing.”

“I don’t go back ‘til the 26th, got the whole week off,” Mickey moved to shut the door, but kept it barely open with his face peeking through a crack to admire the shirt being pulled taut across Ian’s shoulder blades as the buttons were clasped. Typically, he’d work holidays even if the offices were closed. He’d go in on Christmas morning and be the only one in the building, but would feel more content getting work done in the company of strewn papers and stained coffee mugs on a day made for family than he would sitting alone at home with his cats, fitting the stereotype of a widowed eighty-year-old woman whose children never visit, “I’ll be out in a minute.”

Ian waited until after the show to bring up the whole Mystery Meal idea, not wanting to rush it as they were being crammed into the venue with no room to breathe or hear each other speak. Everyone filtered out of the club and Mandy trailed behind Ian, using him as her guide to exit safely and lead them into the frigid November air. People put on the jackets they had removed when they were stuffed inside, including the two with their backs flush against the brick wall, “We’re not gonna be able to do this soon, it’s already too fuckin’ cold.”

“Eh,” hot breath bubbled up from his throat and escaped through his lips, creating streams of steam in front of his face, “stop bein’ such a wimp.” Regret instantly flooded him as he began to feel himself shiver, keeping his jaw clenched tight so she wouldn’t hear his teeth chattering. It was chilly, and yes, once it began to snow, these weekly rendezvous would have to come to an end. However, the idea of them ending didn’t bother Ian in the slightest, because he knew that instead of standing outside in temperatures so low they turned the tip of his nose numb, both of them would be in the warm confines of a dressing room with Mickey; which reminded him of what he needed to ask, “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”

Mandy tucked her bare hands under her armpits, letting out an annoyed sigh, “Mom wants me to drive up and see her and my brother ‘cause I haven’t seen him in almost a year, but I really don’t wanna go.” She scooted along the wall to press her bicep to Ian’s, hoping their heat would multiply if they were connected, “I mean, I’d go if it was just him ‘cause I do miss him, but she just ruins it and,” she shook her head and adjusted her hands, closing them into fists, “never mind, it’s a long story.”

He hated playing dumb, hating lying, hating keeping secrets that could so easily be burst open with only a few words. But, for the sake of respecting Mickey’s wishes, he kept his mouth shut, “I thought you hadn’t seen your brother in a long time?”

“That’s my older brother,” a name wasn’t given, “I’m talking about my younger brother, Max. He’s seven.” She snuck a peak at Ian’s face to gauge his reaction, expecting some shock to be expressed, but was only met with slow nods, “I know, the eighteen-year age gap is pretty,” she paused, “odd.” Information was being exchanged, yet everything was still painfully vague, “Mom had me young, she still had time.”

“My oldest sister and youngest brother are twenty years apart,” he zipped his jacket up to cover his frozen chin, and instantly stuffed his hands back into his pockets, feeling like the conversation was going to end sooner rather than later just purely from the weather, “that’s not a new concept to me.” He recently had found himself not craving cigarettes, like being in a home where smoking was forbidden made him want it less and less, but right now, he wished he had one to thaw himself from the inside out, “Anyway, if you aren’t doing anything, do you wanna have dinner with me and my boyfriend?”

“Of course, I will,” she responded without any hesitation, her smile beaming so brightly underneath the streetlights mixed with headlights from oncoming cars coming to pick people up after the show, “but does he know you invited me?”

“Yeah, he knows,” he felt his phone vibrate against his thigh and, without even checking, he knew it was Mickey asking where the fuck he was, “I asked him, he said it’s cool. It’s gonna be at his house, just the three of us. I told him I’ll help cook, but we both know he’ll end up doing most of it ‘cause I’ll burn everything.” They both laughed a little and watched people begin to leave, their shivering now in sync, “Here,” he pulled his phone out and quickly entered is password to get the name Mickey off his screen, and opened his notes for her to digitally write something, “give me your address so I can pick you up. Put your number down too, I guess it’s about time for that, huh?”

“Duh, we’ve only been seeing each other for, like, eight months,” she grinned and plucked the device from his grip and started typing at a mile a minute with her thumbs. She didn’t know it, but the clarification of how long it had been since they met made him feel indescribably thankful; and not just because it was the time of year for giving thanks. His life had done a complete one-eighty in the span of those short months. He had gone from working around the clock with nothing to bring him joy or give his life meaning, to his whole world being filled with happiness with two people – two best friends – who cared for and about him, and give him a reason to wake up in the morning. If the rest of his time on this earth was going to be like this, he’d have no objections.

She gave him his phone back and pushed herself off the wall, signaling that she was ready to go and huddle up under the covers, “You going?” she nodded and apologized, saying she wished she wasn’t such a “wimp,” “Alright, well, I’ll pick you up sometime on Thursday. I’ll text you.” They agreed to keep in touch in the coming days, and as she began to walk away, he realized he forgot something, “Wait,” his voice caused her to stop just before she stepped off the curb, and he met her halfway so he wouldn’t have to yell across the dwindling crowd of people, “he wants to know if you’re allergic to anything or if you’re a vegan or whatever, just so we know not to make certain things.”

“Not a vegan,” she spoke as if that should’ve been common knowledge, “but I’m mildly allergic to peanuts, but that’s it. Like, my face’ll just get kinda red, it’s not life-threatening or whatever.” He asked specifically about apples and pumpkins, trying to be specific yet discreet, and she shook her head silently, “No, I don’t think so. But if you’re making apple pie, can it please be Dutch Apple? The ones with the crust on top are so boring.” Ian internally thought about how Mickey had already given him a lecture about how a crumble top is superior to crust, but just smiled and nodded, locking that away in his mind for future use, “What can I bring, though?”

“You don’t need to bring anything,” not being able to tell her what exactly was going to happen in a few days was agonizing, he could feel the strings trying to get his mouth to form the exposing sentence tugging in his brain, but he did all he could to keep his trap from flying open, “don’t worry about it. Just bring yourself.” He began to step away before he slipped up, “Go home, I’ll see you on Thursday.”

Her mouth opened and closed like she wanted to fight it, wanted to argue that she _needed_ to bring something to a group dinner so she wouldn’t feel like a freeloader, but by the time she could figure out what she wanted to say, he was already waving goodbye as he continued to step backwards toward the wall. She flipped him off, rolled her eyes, and then gave a final wave of her own, before heading into the darkness.

Waiting until the coast was clear was turning into torture, not because he ached to see Mickey like he had in the beginning, but because he could feel the air around him seeping through his jacket, through his shirt, and onto his skin. Ice on the roads meant cabs took longer to arrive, meaning he was stuck against that brick wall for twice the time he usually would be, but he kept busy by sending his man an update picture every time another civilian left the premises, followed by a string of waving emojis.

“She’s not a vegan, she’s not allergic to apples or pumpkins,” Ian threw himself onto the floor of the dressing room, folding his knees into his chest to keep any warmth he had left compacted into his own body, “but she is allergic to peanuts.” With his arms wrapped around his shins, he watched Mickey use what appeared to be yet another makeup wipe to get the blood red lipstick off his mouth, “And she said she wants Dutch Apple pie, which I thought was kinda funny.”

“I don’t remember her being allergic to peanuts,” Mickey spoke quietly as he tried to think back while scrubbing at his face, blurring the lines between the makeup stain and irritation from the abuse he was putting his skin through, “I think I’d remember if she had to go to the hospital or something.”

“She said it’s not life-threatening. Like, her face gets red, but she doesn’t start choking or whatever.” He stretched out his legs once he had regained feeling in his toes and fingertips, and pulled the duffle bag full of money toward himself, “She wanted to know what she could bring. I told her nothing, but you know that’s not gonna last, so we gotta think of something.”

Mickey tossed the pile of used cloths into the garbage can, placed Anna’s false eyelashes into their respective box, and starting packing everything up. Control was something he had a hard time with, and it was a problem he knew he needed to work on. He wanted to control everything, down to every single tiny detail, because if he was in control, nothing could go wrong; and if it did, he could blame himself. He had told Ian that he would be helping on the day the nation densely celebrates the genocide of Native Americans, but in reality, he wanted to be the one to shop, cook, clean, set the table, and wash up afterwards. He wanted to be some kind of superhuman and manage to do the jobs of multiple people by himself, and settling for allowing others to involve themselves triggered every back-out-of-this-now thought in his mind, but he remembered back to the days before everything happened and what Mandy snuck into their dress-up session, “Tell her to bring sparkling cider.”

“‘Kay,” Ian replied, too focused on counting dollar bills to even notice how Mickey had temporarily stopped moving foundation bottles and tubes of mascara into his bag, and was now standing still, chewing on his lip, stuck in a memory from thirteen years ago.

It was the night after the annual Milkovich Thanksgiving, where his dad’s brothers would show up, eat some turkey his mom bought from the store deli and disguised it as fresh, drink more than their fair share of beer, and pass out wherever they could find an empty space in the living room. Mickey was told to stay in his room and “play sick” when family visited so nobody would get any ideas about his wellbeing, which was fine with him, especially since he and Mandy grew closer. She’d sneak in with a spoonful of instant mashed potatoes whenever their dad was too engrossed in the football game to notice she was gone, a roll every time he left to take a piss, and eventually a whole bottle of sparkling apple cider when everyone else was asleep. Mom had bought it special for her, but she saved it for him.

Ian finished counting Mickey’s – Anna’s – loot by the time the man standing in front of him had pulled himself out of his daze. He put the thousands back into the bag, his attempt of keeping it neatly stacked and organized failing as soon as he lifted it off the ground to sling it over his shoulder. On the walk out and during the whole ride home, he considered telling Mickey about this little brother situation, feeling it might lessen the blow if it came out during his and Mandy initial meeting, but decided against it. Their family business was their family business, and while he was currently caught in the middle, it wasn’t his place to discuss such a sensitive and potentially upsetting topic. He just kept his right palm on the thigh next to his own, and tried to add up the hours until all of these lies would be put to rest; then divided it up into minutes, but struggled with seconds.

“Hello, hello, back the fuck up,” Mickey pushed the meowing cats back with a foot, “I know you’re happy, but move.” They followed their dad and step-dad up the stairs, coming uncomfortably close to having their paws stepped on only because they wanted attention. The fur-balls jumped on the bed and stuck their necks out to be scratched, “Why do you guys like we’ve been gone for months, relax, Jesus Christ.”

Ian took over the job of providing them with love while Mickey got into the shower, their Friday routine not missing a beat. He got undressed, dirty clothes in the hamper, and got under the covers in only his underwear on his side of the bed to wait for Mickey to return so he could brush his teeth, just like every other night they stayed together. It wasn’t a big deal having to wait a few extra minutes, but Ian was a morning-shower kind of person, and one that liked to get into bed and go to sleep as soon as humanly possible. They were always out of sync at night; Ian would be in bed, Mickey would come to bed, Ian would get up, then, finally, they’d be able to relax together. For no other reason than to speed the process along, Ian stepped down onto the floor and walked through the cracked bathroom door with his head ducked down, purposely not peeking.

“Hey, I’m gonna brush my teeth,” he spoke louder than normal, needing to overpower the water pumping through the showerhead, some dripping off Mickey’s skin in a constant, steady stream. An agreeing one-word response came echoing throughout the area, and he took that as the go-ahead to step further into the room. He kept his eyes glued to his toes as they traveled from dewy tiles to a fuzzy, white rug in front of the vanity, but slipped up when he went to grab his toothbrush from the counter.

It was only a glimpse, a split-second, unintentional, accidental glance that still managed to light his whole body on fire. Steam had fogged up everything and blurred the outline of Mickey’s body through the glass walls, but it was enough to make Ian feel as though his heart was about to beat out of his chest. It shouldn’t have been anything new to him, considering he had let his fingers trace every inch of that body to the point where he knew the curves of his hips, the slight dip his tummy takes beneath his bellybutton, and the waves that his barely-there abs formed across his stomach all like the back of his hand. Everything he’d been given the privilege to see and learn was familiar, but that moment of seeing him in an unprovoked, natural setting where he was letting himself be seen without any protest, well, that was new.

He scrubbed his teeth so vigorously, he knew there would be blood when he spit. His eyes had found someone else to focus on, to keep him from feeding into the urge of looking just one more time: he read the scent description on the bottle of hand soap next to the sink. Every time Mickey moved and made the water patter louder against the floor, he almost caved, but with one hand flat on the counter and one gripping the living shit out of the brush, he was somehow able to hold himself together. He could tell it was awkward, though, just standing there without saying anything to remind the man that he was only feet away from him, so he decided to speak the truth through foam, “I’m not looking, I promise.”

It was quiet for a beat, creating a growing concern that the bubbles filling his cheeks prevented him from raising his voice enough for Mickey to hear, but then a laugh came, “Why not?”

Ian spit, rinsed the brush off, and then set it back in his mouth, biting it between his back teeth in thought. Did that mean he was allowed to? Maybe, but he didn’t want to, “‘Cause I want it to be a surprise,” he began scrubbing again, continuing to read the collection of fruits listed on the bottle.

“Want what to be a surprise?”

His hand stopped moving, listening closely through the sound of the water for something more, but was left with only silence filled with splashing. He could feel Mickey looking at him through the glass, could feel the stare of two needy yet unsure eyes on the bare skin spanning across his shoulders. He knew they both wanted the same thing, but one just wasn’t ready, the other unwilling to push the other for something he knew he’d appreciate a thousand times more if he was patient, “You.”

“What do you mean?”

“When we finally do it,” the words flew out like vomit, but it was honest, and he figured that there was nothing wrong with honesty. He dipped his head under the faucet to wash his mouth free of any remaining paste, then wiped his lips and chin with a hand towel hanging to his left, keeping his eyes shut when they were at a level of potentially making him see something he was abstaining from, “I want it all to be a surprise.”

From inside the glass box, Mickey watched Ian exit the room looking like a depressed Charlie Brown with his skull hanging low. It was probably best that the conversation ended there, because he was almost positive he would’ve exposed the plans he already had made for the 21st of December, and if Ian wanted a surprise, he’d be getting a goddamn surprise.

Tuesday at six a.m.; that’s when Mickey chose to do his Thanksgiving shopping. He went alone, partially to keep that need for control under wraps and partially because Ian still had to work up until the holiday, but he was sitting in the empty parking lot with his travel mug of coffee when the doors of Safeway opened, giving him access to the whole store without having to fight someone for the last frozen bird.

His list was the length of a CVS receipt, but he took his time, feeling no need to rush when there was no one else around. It was just him, a few other people with the right idea, and workers stocking shelves full of boxed stuffing and canned cranberry sauce. Making everything from scratch was an ambitious idea, especially for someone who had never cooked a Thanksgiving feast in his entire life, but he was determined to make this the best fucking meal either of his guests had ever had. That meant _homemade_ stuffing, _homemade_ cranberry sauce, _homemade_ pies, and _homemade_ everything else. If he wasn’t so queasy when it came to blood, he might’ve found a way to get the turkey fresh, too.

He was in, out, and home by eight o’clock, already ready to take a nap from looping around the store so many times because he forgot another random vegetable in the produce section. He had to make multiple trips to and from the car, and by the third, he had shed his coat and was walking around outside in just a t-shirt, getting soaked from the rain instead of his sweat. He put each ingredient in their respective places to stay until he prepared some dishes in the coming days to lighten his load on the actual holiday; a tip he learned from a Martha Stewart article titled: First-Time Thanksgiving.

The child in him wanted to not care, wanted to throw something together and not give a shit what his sister thought. But that wasn’t him, nor was it something he truly desired. He wanted her to be happy, wanted her to be impressed and proud of him, mainly just wanted someone with his bloodline to see that it was possible to make something of yourself, even if your last name is Milkovich. And if that meant he had to spend Wednesday going store to store trying to find cloth napkins in the right shade of orange, candles that smelled like the transition period between pumpkins and peppermint, and a bottle of wine for he and Mandy to share while Ian drank the sparkling cider, then so be it.

Trying to play it cool and acting like he didn’t care about something was ingrained in him, tattooed inside of his soul from years of having to close himself off so he wouldn’t naïvely walk into situations where he would get hurt. Yet here he was, breaking those barriers and allowing himself to go all out for someone he cared about, someone who he felt would not give less of a shit about napkin colors, but he let himself do it. He had been pretending like he wasn’t interested in this dinner, and although he knew Ian could see right through him, it felt nice to be unabashedly passionate about something that he could put all of his effort into for only a few days to keep his anxiety about what Mandy’s reaction would be at bay. He bought those goddamn napkins, he found the right candles, and a bottle of finely aged wine that he was going to enjoy with his sister, no matter what those annoying, pessimistic voices in his head said.

The big morning arrived, and Mickey felt like he was about vomit. It was all fun and games until his alarm blared into his ears, causing him to stare at the ceiling and contemplate running away in true Mickey fashion while Ian groaned and covered his head with a pillow. Picking things out to set the table with, finding the best recipes, and going shopping were molehills compared the mountain he was about to be forced to climb.

He tried weakly to get Ian up and moving, doing as little as possible but just enough so he’d be able to say he at least attempted. Everything would get done before the lanky man would finally roll out of bed, and Mickey could keep the control in his own grasp without creating an upset on what’s supposed to be a dinner centered around family. So, Mickey rose from under the sheets, went downstairs, and started on the turkey. He had casserole dishes and bowls covered in plastic wrap waiting in the fridge, sitting soundly until Martha’s article said to put them in the oven. When he bought his house, he never understood why someone would need a double-oven; now he knew.

By the time the bird had just began to cook, Ian finally came waltzing down the stairs in just an oversized t-shirt with strands of hair sticking up in different directions. Half-asleep, he sat down on the couch next to Mickey who was on his phone while the Macy’s parade was playing on the T.V., muted. He could smell the sage and thyme coming from the kitchen, making his empty stomach begin to growl, “Why didn’t you wake me up? I was gonna help.”

“Tried,” he wasn’t lying, “you wouldn’t get up.” He locked his phone and shoved it into his sweatshirt pocket, unsure of how Ian wasn’t freezing with his legs completely exposed, “It’s fine, though. I got it done no problem.” He watched his man rub the corners of his eyes with the pads of his index fingers, run his hands through his hair to get it somewhat settled, then yawn to top it off. “When are you going to get her?” Mickey stood and stepped up into the kitchen, heading toward the oven to peek at the obviously not done turkey, “I wanna know when to put the other stuff in.”

“She texted me earlier saying she’d be ready by one,” he stole the remote and relaxed back into the sofa with his chin to his chest, letting his knees spread wide open, “but I gotta shower first. Why are we eating so early, anyway?”

“You eat early so you can have multiple servings,” Mickey absentmindedly wiped down the counter than he had already cleaned multiple times that morning, “then you go to sleep ‘cause that chemical in the meat makes you all tired,” the dish towel was hung back on the oven’s handle, and he began search for something else to occupy his spiraling mind, “and I’d prefer to have some time to talk to her before I feel like passing out. Go shower.”

The knot in the pit of his stomach was tightening with each dissolving minute. When he was left alone downstairs while Ian went to get ready, he found himself checking the time on his phone so often he felt like the button might break. He eventually joined Ian upstairs when he heard the water shut off, assuming that getting dressed would be another hurdle he’d have to overcome that would knock some time off the clock.

A suit? A tux? Super casual jeans a t-shirt? Introduce himself as Anna and do some dramatic wig reveal? As he predicted, this process would give him something to focus on for quite a while. His closet was filled with options ranging from wedding attire to workout clothes he impulsively bought one night when he couldn’t zip a new skin-tight skirt he bought for his sets, but never ended up using. There were too many choices for someone as indecisive as he was, and the need for everything – including his outfit – to be perfect was overwhelming, “What do I wear?”

Ian joined him in front of his wardrobe with one towel around his waist, and another on top of his head that made him look like a Handmaid, “Uh,” he flipped through one end of the selection, then went to the other, stopping every so often to pull a shirt out to inspect it as if he was a fashion designer critiquing his employee’s work. “This one,” he unhooked the hanger from the rod and handed Mickey a black, short sleeve button up, covered in a paisley pattern that was only visible in the correct lighting, “with black jeans and your black Converse.”

“I’ll look like I’m going to a fucking funeral.”

“You’ll look _hip_.”

“I’ve never even worn this,” yanking the tag out of the fabric, he followed Ian into the bathroom to throw it away, and stood side by side next to Ian in front of the mirror with the shirt held up over his chest to imagine what it would look like on. “Do I wear a tie?” he asked genuinely, sincerely concerned about if the whole outfit would be ruined by one minor mistake.

“No,” Ian replied without a second thought, rubbing the towel over his hair to soak up the remaining water, “it’s not like you’re going to the goddamn Met Gala, you’re having dinner.” He slung the wet fabric around his neck and put both hands on Mickey’s shoulders, leading him back out into the bedroom, “And like you said, you’re gonna eat a lot, so you wanna be comfortable,” the towel was placed in the hamper, the action now becoming a habit. “Just get dressed,” he stole his own clothes from _his_ drawer, not struggling with a decision at all, and headed back to the bathroom, “I’ll be out in a second, I’ll go get her, and we’ll all live happily ever after, aright?” the joke bombed, not receiving as much as a grin across Mickey’s lips, “I know you’re nervous, but there’s nothing to worry about. Your stress is stressing me out.”

The door was shut again, and he was left sitting on the corner of his bed with a shirt in his hand and a black hole forming in the pit of his stomach, like everything inside him was about to be swallowed up until he was nothing but a pile of dust. He wanted to move, wanted to get up and get ready, but it felt as though his limbs had concrete blocks tied to them, holding him down and denying him the ability to do anything but let his mind continue to reel.

If he could explain himself, it might be okay. If he could let her know why he didn’t go back for her, how he was living, and how his whole situation wasn’t a safe environment for a child – let alone two – maybe she would understand and find it in her heart to forgive him. Forgiving him for their childhood would be one thing, but him seeing her every week for years and not letting her know Anna was him was something he saw as unforgivable, and knew she would most likely feel the same. It was a gamble, a risky game of Russian roulette where there was a fifty percent chance of them connecting like no time had passed, and a fifty percent chance of her finding his behavior so unjustifiable that she’d want nothing to do with him. His world felt like quicksand, and he was standing stagnant in the center, being sucked in without doing anything to try and stop it.

With shaky fingers, he managed to change his shirt while still sitting. He internally patted himself on the back for that small milestone, then went for the pants. Then a belt. Then shoes. Then cologne. Then a watch. With each achievement, he gained another ounce of confidence from the inner strength he was so clearly showing, but also from his appearance. He had four looks: suits for work, pajamas, casual clothes for running errands, and Anna’s attire. He hadn’t been in a nice clothes for any reason other than his jobs since he went in for his interview with the Bears, and even then, he changed out of them as soon as he got home. The table and food had been the main focus of this dinner, what he wanted to make sure looked pristine and without any flaws, but he realized when looking at himself in the mirror that hung behind his door, he needed to be presentable, too. Everything was a packaged deal.

“Alright,” Mickey heard Ian’s steps coming down the hallway toward the kitchen while he was bent over checking the turkey’s temperature, “I’m going- oh wow,” his words halted – as did his feet – as he turned the corner and saw his outfit of choice being displayed as it should be, instead of living an isolated life in a closet, “you look so good.”

“Domestic bliss gets you goin’, huh,” the known statement rather a question was spoken while he rinsed the thermometer off, then grabbed the stack of plates to begin setting the table. He almost set one down, but stopped himself, “Should we eat out here or in the dining room?” he ignored what Ian was about to say, “It’s more formal, supposed to be used for shit like this. Has a bigger table.”

“Why not, go for it,” Ian came closer and wrapped a hand around Mickey’s neck, bringing him in to plant a kiss on his forehead. With plates between them, it made it a little awkward, but the authenticity and genuineness still came through as strong as ever, “I gotta go, she just texted me saying she’s ready.” Mickey nodded and scrapped his bottom lip with his top teeth, “You’re gonna be fine,” another kiss, a _longer_ kiss, was placed on his temple, “I’ll be back in like a half hour, maybe more if there’s traffic.”

Again, he simply used a nod as his response because frankly, he just couldn’t manage to form a sentence. It was all happening at once, but when Ian began to walk away and he felt his opportunity to say something slipping out of his grasp, his brain finally decided to work as it should, “Can you just text me when you leave her house? So I can puke and still have some time to brush my teeth.”

Ian’s head cocked to the side, his keys dangling next to his thigh, his stance screaming of pity and a desire to take the anxiety away from his guy and put it all on himself, “Yes, I’ll text you,” he felt a need to lighten the mood and try to make Mickey laugh as best he could, even though it was almost guaranteed he wouldn’t get anything back, “but try not to get any on that shirt. It looks too nice.”

To make Ian happy, he smiled just barely, and waited to hear the front door shut before returning to his table setting. He had planned for it to take much longer than it really did, and he found himself finished with everything before he heard anything from Ian. His eyes scanned over the plates and forks and napkins for anything out of place, even a single crooked knife for him to fix and kill some time, but it was all picture-perfect. Now, with the turkey out of the oven and cooling under foil, he stood with his hands on either side of the kitchen sink and his head ducked forward, ready for the vomit whenever it decided to arrive. The vibration in his pocket echoed through his whole body, but he couldn’t bring himself to check it.

Downtown, Ian was in a familiar part of his city, somewhere he knew well and was surprised that she had been living only a short drive away from his own apartment all this time, yet they never met up or ran into each other. He texted both of his best friends to let them know he was outside, albeit for different reasons, but only got a reply from one.

He watched her walk carefully down the stairs of a little house situated among other little houses, carrying a bottle of sparkling cider, a bottle of unnecessary wine, and what appeared to be a store-bought pie. She kept leaning to the side to keep her purse from falling off her shoulder, her beanie was almost flying off, and she had stupidly decided to wear heels in the worst weather, but she made it to the car all without Ian’s help, “That’s for the hand, dickwad.” She had set the bottles on the ground to open her door, handed him the pie, got in, put the bottles on the floor between her feet, and then set the pie on her lap. It should’ve been considered an Olympic sport.

“Didn’t want the car to get cold, you know,” he looked her way as he put the car into reverse, seeing the same sarcastic grin combined with furrowed brows and slow nods that he had seen too many times before on her brother’s face, finding it almost scary how much they resembled each other while still having completely different features. “I told you to just bring the non-alcoholic shit, what’s all that for?”

“I’m being invited to a guy’s house who, if I remember correctly, you called ‘rich’ one time,” she yanked the hat off her head, her bangs sticking to her skin from the heater being cranked to the max, “and you expect me to walk in with just a bottle of sparkling apple cider that no one’s gonna fucking drink?” she unzipped her jacket, craving that fresh, cold air she was just cursing not two minutes ago, “I bought the pie, but I figured it’s better than nothing, and I can't cook, so… The wine’s that good shit, though.”

“I’ll drink the cider,” he said vaguely, hoping she’d take it as a pity compromise, “but we already have literally three different types of pies, you didn’t have to bring anything.” She reiterated her reasoning, but it didn’t click with her that she really, _really_ didn’t need to contribute something, “He made everything from scratch,” she gave him a shocked expression that he could see from the corner of his eye, “everything. Down to the fucking stuffing he stuffed up the bird’s ass. No boxed shit at all.”

“Okay, yeah, about that,” the seatbelt was constricting across her winter pea coat, but somehow she still twisted herself to sit on her left leg to face him, “can you please tell me his name so I don’t make a goddamn fool outta myself? Please?”

“He’ll tell you himself,” Ian tried to defer the request, not confident that he’d be able to keep that one little fact a secret if she kept begging, “I want you guys to meet each other as blank slates, like, get to know each other without me interfering.”

“That’s bullshit, tell me his name so I can introduce myself like a normal person,” this time, he didn’t even say anything back, just smirked and forced his lips to remain sealed so nothing would accidentally sneak out. Both being stubborn, Mandy realized she was never getting the information she was looking for, so she gave up. They drove in silence until they grew closer to Mickey’s neighborhood, that was when she became vocal once again, “Jesus Christ, where are we? Is this even Chicago?”

“It’s the suburbs, baby,” he joked while she let her foot fall back to the floor so she could properly watch the giant houses pass by outside her window, her jaw slack in awe of the decorations on each home – every one different from the others – and the couples walking hand in hand down the sidewalk with umbrellas shielding them from the rain. It seemed like a utopia to her, and Ian saw the same reaction coming from her that he had the first time he saw it as well. They pulled into Mickey’s driveway and Ian got out first, now choosing to help her with what she brought, “Here, let me carry this.”

“No, I got it.”

“Let me help, you just complained I didn’t before?”

“I brought this shit, I want the credit. I want him to know I brought him a bomb-ass, store-bought Dutch Apple pie that I will eat myself if your fancy boyfriend without a name doesn’t want any.”

He could tell she was partially joking but was also absolutely serious, so he put his hands up in surrender and stepped aside so she could gather everything. It was a quiet walk to the front door, only the sounds of shoes splashing in puddles of melted snow to fill the air as they made their way to their nameless host. Ian opened the door and stepped inside, Mandy following, and the scent of homemade food and scented candles hit her like a freight train, stopping her in her tracks from just how good it smelled. It was as if she was in a fragrance coma, unable to focus on the interior of the house until Ian’s voice brought her out of it, “We’re here.”

“Holy mother of God,” she finally blinked herself awake and tilted her head back to stare at the chandelier hanging from the ceiling, almost dropping the bottles of wine. Ian took it upon himself to grab them before there was glass and red liquid covering the tile, “You said he was rich, I didn’t think you meant _this_ rich.” She heard him tell her to wipe her shoes on the mat, letting her know she could either keep them on or take them off, it didn’t matter, but she was too caught up with everything her eyes were taking in that she settled for the first option, “I thought, like, he could pay his rent without worrying about being overdrawn, but…”

“Relax, he doesn’t act rich, he’s just a normal guy” Ian peeked down the hall to see if Mickey was anywhere to be seen, but to no avail. He was stuck in the middle, trying to orchestrate this whole thing without letting it blow up in his face, and he was only seconds away from being able to let out the sigh of relief he’d been holding in since August if Mandy would just… hurry… up, “Take your jacket off, come on.” The nerves were making him antsy, almost childlike with the amount of impatience he had for her gazing around the house. Heels sent waves of clacking throughout the foyer as she started walking toward the dining room to admire the amount of effort this guy had put in for only two guests, but Ian steered her in the opposite direction and stole the pie at the same time; holding the bottles by the necks in one hand, the pie on the other.

Only feet away, Mickey was still standing with his fingers gripping the countertop, knuckles white and shirt still magically clean. The all too familiar noise of a woman’s shoes clicking louder as they came near him was making his pulse rise into an unhealthy territory, and he could feel her presence as she entered the kitchen. He heard her whisper something inaudible, and instantly thought it was about how creepy he must’ve looked; standing in front of a sink with no reaction to a stranger being inside his home.

They weren't twins, but he had always believed they had some kind of telepathic twin powers that started when they grew closer as children. He could tell she was confused without even looking at her, and he wanted more than anything to turn around and comfort her, tell her there’s nothing to be afraid of, tell her everything Ian told him, but his body refused to comply. The heels eventually sounded like they were coming directly towards his back, and then there was a voice, “Your dumbass boyfriend won't tell me your name for whatever reason,” and a poke on his shoulder, “but I’m Mandy.”


End file.
